


Bedroom Politics

by ittybittytidbits



Series: Bedroom Politics [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Diplomat, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Assassin Hange, Assassination, Blackmail, Breeding Kink, Bribery, Caring Erwin Smith, Coercion, Complicated Relationships, Diplomat!Levi, Double Penetration, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flogging, Fluff, Fucking in the Stacks, Gags, Humiliation, Long distance fluff, Masturbation, Mild Daddy Kink, Mutilation, Nile is a horny pervert, Object Insertion, Object Penetration, Objectification, Office Sex, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Phone Sex, Politician!Erwin, Prostitution, Protective Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin), Recreational Drug Use, Self Image, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Worth Issues, Smut, Spanking, Thuggy daddies, Trauma, Unsafe Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Vindictive Erwin, Violent Sex, Voyeurism, Wannabe sugar daddy Erwin, abusive sex, cheesy Erwin, clandestine fluff, dramatic levi, some names may be spelled differently, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:01:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 33
Words: 133,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23931220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ittybittytidbits/pseuds/ittybittytidbits
Summary: What is often said: Levi Ackerman of the eminent Ackerman family line of diplomats, is Maria's youngest ambassador and its most effective negotiator.What is left unsaid: Levi Ackerman's Chief of Staff is fresh, pretty, and in demand in the private chambers of Sina's political elite, and neither of you were above taking full advantage of it.AU, Diplomat!Reader, Diplomat!Levi, Politician!Erwin, Titans as terrorists
Relationships: Bertolt Hoover/Reader, Erwin Smith & Reader, Erwin Smith/Original Character(s), Erwin Smith/Reader, Levi & Reader, Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin)/Original Character(s), Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin)/Reader, Levi/Reader, Nile Dok & Reader, Reiner Braun/Reader
Series: Bedroom Politics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1870627
Comments: 218
Kudos: 369





	1. Chapter 1

_“Wow.”_

_Breathy. Feather-light against the indigo ink of the summer night sky._

_“You’re graduating.”_

_As if the very idea was a foreign, distant concept._

_Legs dangled; swung at the edge of the old tile roof of the fraternity house._

_“You won’t be here anymore.”_

_A grunt. Mildly amused, mildly reproachful of the stupidity that conceived such a question._

_“That’s usually the case.” A swig of beer. The plink of aluminum against ceramic tile._

_“I’ll miss you.” A sigh. “For all your prickliness, Levi, you grow on people.”_

_Simultaneous swivelling of heads. Eyes met, yours framed by an impish grin. Levi flicked your forehead, right between your eyes._

_“Little brat.” But his tone was soft, beer forgotten as his body turned squarely to face you. “Be good to yourself.”_

_Your smile tightened. Eyes stung in anticipation of sentimental tears, but you laughed, loud and uncertain, turned away, and blinked your eyes dry._

_“I’ll spoil myself silly when you’re gone.”_

_“Good.”_

_Several beats passed in heavy silence. Then you mumbled, “Are you really going to join the family business?”_

_Levi snorted halfway to sipping his beer. His tone is light. Bright. Almost eager about the family business. “You make it sound like I’m joining the mafia.” The beer can arched down, coming to rest on his knees as his gaze wandered over the rooftops along the fraternity street. “Yeah. I am.”_

_You let the idea sink in. Thought of Levi in a suit, looking every bit respectable._

_You snorted. “I give it a month, tops.”_

_He glared._

_“You won’t be able to rein in your potty mouth. One week in, you’ll find something that’ll grate on your nerves. I won’t be surprised if you cuss out the Ambassador after two weeks!” you laughed._

_He clicked his tongue, but he was smiling in that relaxed, contemplative way that only beer can cause. “I’ll last much longer than that,” he swore. “I’ll last so fucking long one day you’ll come looking for a job and there I’ll be - your motherfucking boss.”_

_“God, Levi. Your mouth.” Affectionately._

_He drained his drink. “Come find me if you’re ever - wherever I happen to be deployed.”_

_You hummed assent, clinked your own beer can against his empty one, and threw your head back to finish the last of the warming liquid. Levi’s eyes had moved from the irremediably dark horizon to your throat, cast gold by the light under the attic eaves._

_The alcohol settled in your belly. You shook the last drops from the can, sighed, and righted your head. Levi was still watching you, fixated on your throat as you spoke. You tilted your head to the side. Give him a little show. What will it hurt?_

_“Congratulations,” you murmured, quiet against the thrumming echoes of parties spilling out of the neighbouring frathouses. “I’m very proud of you, Levi, and I wish you every happiness.”_

\---

Nearing Round Three of Levi Ackerman versus Erwin Smith, Levi Ackerman began to show signs of wear. Erwin Smith’s infuriating smile, on the other hand, remained firmly unflappable.

The two, Ambassador (technically, Charge d’Affair) of the Kingdom of Maria and the Speaker of the Majority Party of the Parliament in the Republic of Sina, were old university buddies. They had to be, considering how unperturbed Erwin was in the face of Levi’s most colourful cussing. 

Levi only cursed around familiar people. Sometimes, Erwin outright laughed at them.

Erwin seemed to be on the brink of one chortle now, eyes merry as he leaned back and folded his hands over his charcoal-suited middle. “I’m afraid you’re asking a lot of little old me,” he said, baby blues skipping amusedly from Levi to you. 

It was impossible not to smile back. Erwin Smith’s charm truly was the stuff of legends.

Levi glared at you from out of the corner of his eyes. To his adversary, “Cut the bullshit, Smith. If one stupid look from you could soak my Chief of Staff’s panties, I’m sure the rest of you will be more than enough to convince your party mates to vote in favour of passing that damned Aid Bill,” he griped, glare upon you having turned acid as you attempted to swallow another little smile.

Your trysts with Erwin Smith (among other notable names in Sinian government circles) were well-known by your boss and old friend who, unfortunately, also knew that Erwin was a particular favourite of yours. 

The blond contemplated you now, half jest more than ready to turn serious at a moment’s notice. Leaning slightly towards you, “Are you really so eager now, Darling?”

“Whenever you’re ready to agree to our terms, Mr. Smith,” you replied coyly, stockinged legs stretching towards him only to cross at the ankles.

Erwin laughed. Mischievously triumphant. “You see, Levi? All I needed, after all, was some gentle persuasion.”

Levi’s lip curled. “Sonuvabitch. You were going to agree all this time. You just wanted to be assured a quick fuck along the way.”

“Because no one can resist you, my dear,” he winked at you. Then he stood, buttoning his suit jacket as he did, “This Aid Bill is also of benefit to Sina. We both have a common interest in defeating the Titans, after all. I don’t see how anyone in their right mind would think to make this difficult for you.”

Levi huffed. “Ask your party mates. A handful of them. Minority party, too. They are all,” he spat, “apparently out of their fucking minds.”

“Your language will be the death of you yet, my friend.”

Levi loathed those little terms of endearment, so of course Erwin had to use them. Incomparable, after all, was the amusement of watching the younger diplomat struggle to pretend indifference when he was seething with annoyance.

Like now. Now when his eyes flashed and he looked about ready to fly out of his seat to throttle Erwin.

Absolutely nothing like it.

Levi sucked in a tight nasal breath. “I was reserving her -” he jerked his head in your direction, “- for the Prime Minister. But you had to be unreasonable today.”

Erwin pulled on a dejected face and turned to you. “Is that true, love? Were you not about to make time for me today?”

“Now you’re just mocking me.” Levi.

But even in jest, Erwin never wasted words; never wasted breath. You replied for yourself and for Levi. “My time is yours, Mr. Smith, if you can promise not to run away with this downpayment.”

Erwin smiled at that word. He didn’t think to ask for more than one bedroom encounter over this. Perhaps he really was your favourite. He patted his chest. “Gentleman’s honour.”

Now you were getting somewhere. You straightened, pulling your legs back and sitting upright, suddenly all business. “Starting offer is a battalion of foot soldiers, each fully armed, plus a cache of spares enough for a second battalion. Seven tanks, a fleet of jets, and a billion Thalers for war expenses and rebuilding efforts.”

He flinched. Involuntarily. “Nobody said anything about rebuilding expenses!”

“Starting offer,” you reminded him.

Erwin groaned. Levi looked gleeful.

“Fine,” Erwin relented. “I’ll propose it. But ultimately, it’s going to be up to Parliament to set the amount of aid.”

“We would like for you to _seriously endorse_ it,” you insisted. “We have faith in your talents.”

Erwin was shaking his head. “Nothing will come out of it. You’re asking too much.”

“You won’t even try,” you sulked, rising as Levi did. “Fine. Anyway, I’m a prize to be earned, not a dole out.”

Erwin stared hard at you and Levi. Levi returned the look, but you resolutely refused to even glance at him. After a minute’s silence, you began walking away. Levi was just trailing out behind you when Erwin laughed. 

“All right, all right.” He held both hands up, expression open with mirth. “That’s an old trick, you two, but you’ve got me. I’ll _seriously endorse_ your proposal. Get you as much of it as I can. Will that make you happy?”

He was looking right at you. Speaking directly to you.

“Not as happy as we are to watch you think with your dick,” Levi cut in for you. You finally deigned to glance back at Erwin.

“It will make me even happier, “you purred, “if you can get all of it for us, _Darling_.”

His face split into a knowing grin. “What are you like when you’re very happy, love?”

“Find out.”

Levi was walking out. As far as he was concerned, the deal was closed. He had no interest in sticking around and listening to your verbal foreplay.

You rounded your vacated seat, crossed to two steps to Erwin, and dragged a hand up his pristine sleeve. “Same time same place?”

He inclined his head.

From the door, Levi called out, “First reading is in a few days. Don’t be too spent fucking that you forget.”

The hand up his sleeve had found his lapel, and was smoothing it down with tiny little pats, brushing now and then against his shirted stomach. Your tongue flicked out between your lips and you couldn’t resist skimming your nails over the taut muscles.

Erwin’s tone was studiedly mild. “I won’t.”

You pressed a palm over his stomach. Blinked up at him through your lashes. “See you then, _love._ ” 

Then you turned to follow Levi out the door, leaving Erwin’s fingers digging into the wood of his chair.

\---

Within two minutes of your arrival at Erwin’s private penthouse, you were bent over his knees, one of his hands on the small of your back while the other stroked the contours of your bare bottom. 

“I don’t mind a spanking,” you moaned, nearly shivering in anticipation.

He chuckled. “You don’t need one.” A warm palm came to rest on the crest of your ass. “Good girls don’t need spankings.” A finger slipped between your legs, prodded inside you, and curled to administer a gentle massage. “And you’ve been a very good girl.”

You groaned, squirming in time with the motions.

“Such a sweet, good little girl.” A second finger joined the first, twisting and scissoring so wonderfully you bucked into the sensation.

Erwin made an appreciative noise. His fingers, large and knowing, always grazed that perfect little spot. He had you flushed and keening, face pushed into his bed, mouth full of his duvet. 

“Let me hear you.” A third finger joined the fray. And without warning, he pumped hard and fast, stroking you almost maniacally, immobilising you with the hand on your back.

You cried out, voice muffled, back arching and cunt clenching around fingers buried knuckle-deep inside you. 

“Come for me.”

You shuddered, vision going white as violent pleasure shot up your spine, exploding so fast, leaving you unable to pause for breath until you collapsed wet and boneless across Erwin’s lap.

You were still shivering when he dragged wet fingers out and moved you onto your stomach on the bed. 

“You really are as beautiful as they say.”

His voice seemed to come from far away. You drew long breaths, willing your eyes to stay open. From somewhere behind you, clothes rustled as Erwin undressed. The bed dipped, then he was nudging your knees apart with his soiled fingers, skimming up the inside of your thighs and spreading you open as far as you would go.

“Condom,” you managed to croak, still subdued with pleasure.

“Not this time.” You swore you could feel his stare, gauging his size against you. “Majority can get the proposal passed, but the Prime Minister still has veto power. I hear he especially dislikes condoms.”

You hissed in a breath. The tip of his swollen cock touched you. He was so hot, and you were so sensitive. It was unbearable. 

You wanted that cock inside you. 

“Fuck me,” you rasped. “Fuck me and get me an audience with the Prime Minister.”

“His Chief of Staff might be there, too.” The head of his cock pushed in; stilled. He had you by the hips now, his grip bruising, keeping you from bucking into him.

You growled in frustration. “Then I will suck the Prime Minister’s cock and his Chief of Staff’s, too! Just fuck me!”

Erwin drove forward, and in a second you were wonderfully, painfully, stretched full with him. He leaned over you, one arm bracing just beside your head, the other digging under your breasts, cupping and squeezing as he thrust into you. 

You groaned in appreciation, inching up onto your knees, rocking your hips to meet his, cramming the entire length of his hot cock inside yourself.

“Do you want to cum inside me?”

He grunted, hips snapping against your ass. 

“Would the Prime Minister like that, too?”

He rode you hard, his groping hand gone astray, the muscles of his free forearm tensing with his need.

“Does he want a threesome with his Chief of Staff? Or would he like -?”

Erwin growled, hot breath blowing erratic against the shell of your ear. His mouth descended, nipping, teeth grazing in warning. “Quiet.” His right hand fumbled from your breasts down to your belly, found your clitoris, and pinched sharply. You yelped. 

The pair of you collapsed, Erwin just catching himself before he crushed you. Pinning you flush against himself, he plowed you into the mattress, and in three powerful thrusts, came with a shudder, pumping you full before rolling off and onto his back, breathless and finally limp.

“Prime Minister Dawk likes to begin by watching,” he gasped, an arm over his eyes. “He likes to finish with a blow job.”

“So it’ll have to be a threesome.” You pulled yourself up and looked down at Erwin Smith, hair dishevelled and chest shining with sweat. He was built like a god. “How do you know that?”

A rueful smile curved up his mouth. One blue eye peeked out. “Potential scandals have their own grapevines, and those are firmly planted in Parliament’s backyard.” The arm left his eye to reach for you. He stroked your side, lingering on the curve of your waist. “You are so hot.”

You had to mirror his grin. “You’re not so bad yourself.” He looked dazed. Completely fucked out. “Think a good lay is all it will take to withhold veto?”

“I had the impression you were already sure about that.”

You got on your knees, crawled over, and straddled him. “I am.” Long curls brushed his chest as you made your way down, kissing along his coveted abs until your words fanned over his slick cock. “I just wanted to hear you say it.”

You took his length into your mouth, bobbing languidly, coaxing him back to life. Erwin blindly reached for you, fingers running, slipping helplessly through your hair. You sucked him gently, persistently, planting open-mouthed kisses and dragging your tongue all around his cock. He was at full mast by the time you licked precum off the head, leaning against his elbows, eyes cloudy and heavy-lidded.

“Ride me.”

“Ah,” you agreed, following the trail you kissed up from his navel to the corner of his mouth. Erwin reached for you, thumbing your cheeks, running his hands over your shoulders and down your body as you sank down on him. He moaned, squeezing your ass, raking hungry eyes over your breasts.

“You’re too good to me, darling.”

You bent over him, palms braced on his chest as you ground down and hard against his throbbing erection.

“You earned it.”

\---

By the time you finished your shower and padded in your pyjamas to the den downstairs, the television in the Embassy House had been turned, as usual, to the news. Your colleagues and housemates were ranged around it in varying degrees of interest.

You took up a spot beside Sasha Braus, who was guarding a box of pastries someone brought, and filched your overdue supper - a semi-stale _pain au chocolat_. Eren Jaeger, Armin Arlert, and Connie Springer were smushed together on the sofa, arguing. You watched them, half-interested.

“...hijacking of a city bus on Monday was confirmed to have been the work of the Titans, a self-declared pro-democracy group branded as a terrorist organisation by the Kingdom of Maria, where they are based…”

Eren twisted his head around to peer at you. “Titans are dead meat once we get aid, right?”

He really was like a little child sometimes, despite the grind that consular fieldwork put him through.

You could humour him. “Sure, Eren.”

“And that’s soon, right?” chimed in Connie. Smarter than Eren, Connie opted to tip his head as far back as it would go to look at you. 

You shrugged, wondering how the two of them could ever be comfortable. “That’s what we’re working on.”

Only Armin remained quiet. A strategic genius within the Political Affairs’ Research and Policy Team, Armin’s department worked closely with you and Levi on the aid negotiations, and was privy to its little snags. You shrugged at Armin’s wide blue stare - _a baby version of Erwin’s_ , you thought and banished it instantly - and offered a miniscule shrug. No point dashing everyone’s hopes.

The whole truth was that nobody expected Sina to take Maria’s cry for aid seriously. And why should they? Maria, at the beginning of Queen Historia’s reign two years ago, imposed steep import-export tarriffs and tightened quotas of transit goods bound for export through Maria’s international ports. 

Sinian traders, heavily dependent on Maria’s ports, saw a drastic increase in their cost of business and a simultaneous, equally alarming drop in the volume of the same. 

Historia could not be persuaded to change her mind, and land-locked Sina was forced to swallow this new policy. 

Now Maria, rocked by the Titans’ terror threats, wanted military and financial aid from Sina. 

You and Levi were laughed out of that first meeting with the Sinian foreign minister, and Levi completely understood. Why give to a selfish ass? He so eloquently put it.

But luck came in the form of M.P. Erwin Smith, ex-diplomat and Levi’s old university mate. Recruited straight out of the diplomatic circuit by retired majority leader Darius Zackley, forward-thinking Erwin succeeded his mentor and was persuaded to take up Maria’s cause by a combination of friendship, foresight of the annoyances a spillover of Titan activities would cause in Sina, fun times promised by a round of under the table footsies, and his own ulterior motives.

That little snake always has ulterior motives, Levi had grinned. You nodded along, happy to have a shot at aid, and knowing that Levi enjoyed having Erwin keep him on his toes.

“Why can’t we just fight the Titans ourselves?” Eren’s petulant moan tore you from your thoughts. “We could hunt them down, can’t we? Dig them out of their little terror cells and exterminate them!”

Armin heaved a huge, quiet sigh. Connie smacked Eren the head in idiotic brotherly spirit.

“Because we haven’t got enough funds and soldiers, doofus!” He shook his head. “You’d think Maria wanted to do that first!”

“That aid had better hurry up, then,” Eren blew his bangs out of his eyes and gestured in the direction of the news, which was listing a litany of offenses attributed to the Titans, all of which were classic acts of destruction and violence, “before the Titans decide to blow the whole town up.”

A mere seven hours later, at exactly three o’ clock in the pre-dawn, twin explosions ripped through the passenger terminals of Sina’s Mitras Airport and Maria’s Trost International Airport. 

Online, a heavily censored, voice-edited video of a self-proclaimed Titan supporter and founder of a Titan cell in Sina surfaced, claiming joint responsibility for the blasts that left hundreds instantly dead, and thousands injured and missing.

You were roused from sleep by an insistent banging on your door. You got up to open it and Levi, pale and hollow-eyed, stumbled into your arms. 


	2. Chapter 2

He hadn’t expected to hear from Erwin anymore. At least, not for the rest of the day. But Levi still found himself unsurprised when his phone rang a few hours after parting with the man, and Erwin Smith’s contact details flashed on his screen. 

He was just about to leave the office. That seemed far off now.

“Eyebrows.”

“Levi.” Erwin sounded heavy. It left Levi feeling unsettled, like the M.P.’s tone portended something ominous.

“Had your fun now?” the younger man cut in. He had an urge to say something - anything - to relieve the pressure of dread slowly creeping up from the pit of his belly.

He imagined Erwin shaking his head. “Listen to me.” This is important, everything about this conversation screamed, but Levi didn’t want to hear it. It’d been a long day. He needed to know if you’d gotten home - back to the Embassy House - safe. He wanted to go home himself. He didn’t want to hear what was inevitably going to turn this long day into a long night.

“The Titans are going to bomb Trost International Airport in a few hours. Three o’clock in the morning, to be precise.” He said drily. “The hour of ghouls and spirits. The best time to drive home their message of divine retribution.”

Levi’s mouth went dry. “How do you know this?”

“The same way you know about Nile Dawk’s and his party mates’ business.”

Not too long ago, purely for her own entertainment, Political Affairs’ Division Head Hange Zoe decided to turn her wire tapping devices into the communication lines of Sina’s Parliamentary Members. Levi had off-handedly warned her that if she was found out and her little games caused any trouble to the Embassy, he would personally wring her neck. Hange had obliged, and shifted her attention to minor members of Parliament.

“The puny, powerless ones,” she had said, squinting her eyes and pinching thumb and index fingers together to demonstrate, “who are much less likely to kick up a fuss.”

She stumbled upon Bertholdt Hoover, the most unlikely, most unremarkable member of Parliament. No history of political involvement or even activism. Everyone marvelled over his election to Parliament.

Hange had expected to capture nothing more than phone sex audio. She ended up listening in on correspondence to and from Pastor Nick, the Titans’ militant priest leader-founder, and learned that all three of them enjoyed the generosity of the one and the same corporate sponsor.

Levi officially green-lighted her backyard espionage project after that.

Now he narrowed his eyes into the darkness of his office. He had switched off all the lights on his way out when Erwin called, which left him standing in the darkness, hissing into his phone. 

“You’ve been counter-tapping us, haven’t you?”

Erwin made a non-committal noise. “Let’s talk about three o’clock, Levi,” he said patiently. “I thought it might be too late for you to take advantage of it from this time, so I took the liberty of...making arrangements.”

Levi’s grip tightened around his phone. “Take advantage? People are going to fucking die, Erwin! And instead of warning me ahead, you decide to take advantage of it!?” he roared, the sound bouncing around the stillness of his office.

“Do you want your aid or not?”

“At the expense of human lives?” Disbelief. Something in Levi’s consciousness tilted. This was not the Erwin Smith he knew. This was not the bloke who smiled dumbly at the world, who drank a little too much and enjoyed getting a little too wasted at university parties. This was not the easy-going Erwin Smith he’d known for years.

“Without aid, you will lose more people.”

Or maybe it was. Maybe he was like this all along, and Levi refused to see because he couldn’t imagine popular, well-liked Erwin Smith turning into...this. Acting like the politician he’d become. 

Maybe he refused to see because seeing meant accepting that someday, he, too, would become like that. 

“Levi?” 

He hadn’t realised that he was breathing hard. Erwin’s words, so full of sense, swam around his mind. His words, when they left his mouth, were creaky and tight.

“So what’s your bright idea for taking advantage of this?”

“Replicate it in Mitras Airport.”

Fuck this. Fuck this shit. Fuck Erwin and his supposed reason.

Levi squeezed his eyes shut. “You’re going to bomb your own fucking country? -”

“I already have people on standby -”

“Your answer is to kill more people?” His voice was rising. “Kill your own people? Goddamn you, Erwin!”

His outburst was met by several beats of silence. Erwin let him work through his rage. When Levi’s heaving breaths had gone quiet, he said, “I thought you’ve become mature enough for your position, Levi.” He sounded like he was speaking directly into Levi’s ear, his voice suffusing the speaker, filling the darkness. “After all, you have no trouble whoring out your Chief of Staff to advance your career.”

Levi made a sound of weak protest. “It’s for the promotion of Marian interests.” He seemed unconvinced himself. “She knows that.”

“I suppose you remind her daily that the successful promotion of Marian interests in Sina are attributed to the skill of its head of mission? Or temporary head of mission?”

Levi deflated.

“I’m glad we’re on the same page, because I need you to do something in support of all this.”

Levi refused to answer.

“Don’t waste the sacrificed lives,” Erwin cajoled. “Obviously, the Titans are not going to claim responsibility for the Mitras Airport bombing -”

“And neither will you.”

“- So you’re going to have to claim it for them. If your staff can think of recreational espionage on the Members of Parliament, surely they will have no problem staging a video confession.”

“Nile will know it’s fake.” He didn’t know that. Not for certain. But Levi felt morally obliged to put up some resistance, no matter how weak. Erwin soldiered ahead. 

“Then Nile will also know that someone’s keeping tabs on him. But he won’t know who.”

Levi passed a hand over his face. “This is a game to you, isn’t it?”

“Isn’t it to all of us?” He paused. “I know you’re not pleased with me tonight, so I’ll just say that I expect to see your token of cooperation very soon, and then I’ll leave you to enjoy the rest of your night.”

As if there was going to be any of that. Levi’s mind was already racing, thinking up names and faces and what he would say at the emergency meeting that he should definitely call, and how soon his staff could believably publish the video. The video. Like it had already been certainly conceived.

“What’s in this for you?” He couldn’t resist asking Erwin. “Why are you hell-bent on getting us aid when none of your colleagues would even listen to us?”

Erwin’s smile was so wide, Levi was certain he heard it. “Maybe because I’m your lucky charm. Or maybe because I made a gentleman’s promise.”

“I can’t believe you.”

“Try,” the other chuckled. “I’ve never broken a promise to a lady before. Good-night, Levi.” 

Then the line went dead.

\---

Now he held you fiercely. Barely speaking, barely breathing. Legs stumbling, driving you backwards into the dimness of your room, the light from the hallway narrowing until it blinked out of existence. 

Your arms came up around him, fluttering behind his shoulders, moving up the back of his neck, fingers diving into his hair. Fisting. Gripping. Anchoring him to reality. Beyond the safety of your room, the Embassy House was stirring to life. Doors slammed open and closed; footsteps thudded up and down halls and stairs.

“Mitras Airport,” he croaked. “Just now. We just finished -”

You rested your chin on the top of his head. Stroked his hair. Shushed him. “It’s all right.”

His face dug into the side of your neck and you heard a miniscule, almost sobbing, “No.”

“It’s all right,” you repeated, insistent. “I understand.” You didn’t, but there would be time for that later. The sounds of activity had risen. The voices of your colleagues, pounding on doors, shouting for everyone to get up, there’s been a bombing, people are flooding the Embassy! - sank through the walls. In your mind’s eye you saw lights flicker on, saw housemates rush to get dressed. Mobile phones rang, shrill. The landline trilled. Urgent voices, all talking one over the other, drifted into a cloud that loomed over your heads.

Your body tensed. It was reflex by this time, after two years of being Chief of Staff. You quelled the urge to rush headlong into the action, to organise the panic outside your room, which you did not doubt was being replicated this very instant within the Embassy itself, just a ten-minute walk away.

“It’s all right,” you murmured again, this time more for your benefit. With it you breathed deep, breathed in the office smell that clung to Levi’s clothes, his skin and his hair. You held him back, just as tightly.

“It had to be done.”

“Yes; yes, of course.”

“It’s going to be like this from now on.” His voice, though small, was vicious. Resolute. “I’m going to have to be like this from now on.”

You leaned your cheek against his head and nodded wordlessly. You would take this moment, just this minute of silence, before diving back into the furor outside.

\---

“We’re operating at full capacity.”

The Embassy was a hive of activity: staff rushing about, all on double shifts, an interminable number of lanes open for just about everything, with noise levels to match the swelling crowd arriving endlessly and camping out on the lawn. So many of the arrivals had seen it fit to pitch temporary camps that security had taken to stringing a bright yellow Do not Enter tape between the Embassy Building and the neighbouring Embassy House to control the crowd.

Consul-General Mike Zacharius looked spent and sleepless as he led you and Levi through his section of the building. Embassy Manager Marco Bodt scurried past with a bundle of papers, weaving his way through the milling staff and having to raise his voice to be heard above the din,

“Be right with you, Mr. Ackerman, Sir!” He nodded at the stack in his hands by way of explanation and then was gone, swallowed up by the sea of people before Levi could respond.

“Must be pretty bad if Marco has to pick up the mail himself,” you commented, wondering how on earth any work was getting done. One woman was bawling while a young consul hovered helplessly over her. Another man, screaming toddler in one arm, had thrown his head back like his child, screaming for help to nobody in particular.

“That’s not mail,” Mike replied, striding tall against the tide of people. “Might not look like it, but a few people actually left flowers and condolence notes at the Embassy gates. Most of it has gotten crushed in all this -” he nodded at the crowd, “But Marco was adamant about saving at least some. Acknowledge their sympathies, he said.”

Good old Marco. Trust him to think about the feelings of the whole world when his own nerves were probably already strung to hell.

“If you need extra space,” Levi suddenly spoke up for the first time, his gaze skimming over a collection of senior citizens, some in wheelchairs and others sitting on the floor, clustered together against a wall, “we can rearrange the Embassy offices and open up a room or two for you.”

Mike shook his head. “Thanks, but it’ll fill up, just like this. Security can barely keep up as it is. And I don’t think we have enough people to man two more rooms.”

The brief tour concluded at Mike’s office, which was filled with paperwork and death certificates to be signed. Even with the door shut, the voices of the people carried inside as white noise.

“We’re working as fast as we can. Repatriations of the living can be done quickest, but we have to wait for the airport to be reopened, which won’t be until for a few days. Then there’s identification and return of the bodies...and pieces of bodies. Investigators are talking about holding them for a while longer, although, for the life of me,” he made a face, “I can’t imagine why.”

He patted the tallest stack on his desk, which consisted of several reams’ worth of missing persons reports, filled out by the friends and family waiting out on the Embassy grounds.

“The ones in the hospitals are easier to find,” he said. “But most of them are either in the morgue, yet to be pieced together, or still to be found under the rubble. There’s so many of them that even the city’s running out of storage space. There’s talk of building temporary freezers to ease the traffic caused by the funereal vans.”

Levi looked hollowed out.

You cut the visit short. “We’ll get out of your hair, Mike. Try not to add to the crowd control problem here.”

He shook his head. “Not at all. Glad to have you. Under better circumstances next time, I hope.”

“We’ll leave you to it, then.”

He saw the two of you to the door. Levi’s expression was dark. Mike shot him a tired, sympathetic smile and clapped his shoulder. “We’ll get the Titans, yet, Levi. That aid will come through, and all these people will be avenged.”

From the ghostly look on his face, you thought Levi was going to be sick. He said nothing all the way across the building, glowering as the noise and confusion of the consular section gave way to the more monotonous working sounds of the Embassy offices. People took one look at his face and stepped out of the way, leaving you to mouth ‘sorries’ and to receive sympathetic looks as you hurried after him, his office door nearly catching you in the face as he let it swing shut behind himself.

You tried the door handle. Unlocked, which meant he wanted to talk. A sulky, morose Levi would have locked himself in.

You let yourself inside, closed the door, and locked it. To your surprise, you found Hange Zoe perched on the couch. Levi was leaning over a desk drawer, cigarette in his mouth, the only sound in the room the staccato pzzzsht-click-click-click of the lighter refusing to work. 

Levi spat out his cigarette; let the lighter clatter onto the table. His hands trembled. He curled them into fists.

“Did you see that? Hear that?” His face was a mask of anguish. “I did that!” He whirled on Hange, who looked on, brows knit but otherwise impassive. “I let Erwin talk me into that. All those people are dead because of us!”

Hange had heard all of this before, of course. She was part of the team Levi hastily assembled in the dead of the night to work out the assignment Erwin had given him.

“So don’t waste their deaths.”

He wrenched his chair aside and sat down hard on it, teeth gritting, eyes stormy. From where you stood with your back against the door, you murmured,

“They would have died anyway. If not here, then at Maria, still under the hands of the Titans. They might as well have died useful deaths.”

Hange’s eyes flicked between you and Levi, whose head was tilted ever so slightly in the direction of your voice.

“You’ve seen all the grieving, all the suffering. It’s time to do justice to that.”

Little by little, Levi’s rigid posture loosened. He passed a hand over his face; reached for his discarded cigarette and managed to light it, shoulders relaxing with his first drag. He breathed smoke in and out until the gaunt look left him and he was himself again, clear-eyed and imperious.

“The Prime Minister’s office sent a message of sympathy, didn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Call them back. Call Nile. Personally, and ask to set a meeting within the day.” Ash crumbled from the tip of his smouldering cigarette onto the glass of his table. “He’ll have seen the confession video already. We’ll strike a deal with him.”

\---

Nile Dawk was not in the mood for this.

Friday nights were precious: relegated to early weekend getaways at the Eldian Hotel, wining, dining, and fucking before returning home noon on Saturday to kiss his wife and children like a paragon father of the Sinian nation.

Friday nights and early Saturday mornings tended to pass very quickly, too, so he absolutely hated any interruption.

“What the hell do you mean you don’t know who bombed the airport?” he roared into his phone, stalking around his suite in a dressing robe. “You’re paid to find out!”

He was on the phone with Gunther Shultz, chief of the ongoing investigation at the airport. Ongoing for several hours without an answer. Nile was getting impatient. Before Gunther, he had just finished speaking to Eld Jinn, director of Sina’s intelligence agency, who regretfully informed the Prime Minister that they, too, had no leads. The bombing had happened without any hint of prior suspicious activity. 

Gunther, Eld, and Nile’s entire staff had told him about the confession video floating around online, but the Prime Minister refused to believe it and insisted on expedited investigations. 

He took a deep breath, willing some calm into his voice. “The public will want a report soon, and Parliament has to have a statement. By this afternoon, I expect to have someone to blame!” Then he ended the call and hurled his phone across the room. It landed on the bed, bounced weakly, and lay face down on the rumpled Egyptian cotton sheets. 

From the corner of his eye, he spotted his Chief of Staff, Reiner Braun, at the threshold to the bedroom. Nile wearily turned to him. “What is it now, Reiner?”

He figured it had to be something good, judging by the shit-eating grin across Reiner’s face. The younger man held up a cellphone, his palm jammed against the receiver.

“Levi’s little whore, sir, asking to speak to you directly.”

Nile immediately perked up in interest. He had heard enough about you through the Parliamentary grapevine. Men rumoured to have slept with you consistently kept mum about the rumours, but judging by the speed with which favours were dispensed to Maria, Nile bet on the rumours being true.

For months now, he had attempted to bed you, just to see what all the fuss was about. But he couldn’t even get hold of you for a minute’s conversation, and on the rare occasions Reiner called Levi’s office and ended up speaking to you instead, you were always proper, with nary a hint of your supposed prolific after-hours activities.

In all fairness, he thought, the rumours did say that you slept with men - and the occasional woman - only if you had business with them. And for the longest time, you did not, apparently, have business with the Prime Minister’s office. Until now.

He gestured for the phone, which Reiner promptly handed over. Both men exchanged grins.

“Nile Dawk speaking.”

“Oh!” What an adorable squeak. “Prime Minister Dawk.” Your voice sounded breathy over the phone, as if you couldn’t get over the awe of speaking to the leader of the Sinian people.

Nile chuckled. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this phone call, my dear?”

You made a little noise like you were gathering the nerve to launch into a prepared speech. Nile jammed the phone against his ear, grin widening. He couldn’t get enough of you, of your voice. Imagined what it would be like to have that voice rattling around his cock while cherry-red lips -

“Maria thanks you warmly for the messages of sympathy, Mr. Dawk. We extend the same condolences to Sina. It’s been such a tragedy, needlessly losing so many people.”

“Too many lives wasted, indeed,” Nile agreed distractedly. He made his way to the minibar, poured himself a little glass of brandy, and raised it to Reiner in silent toast. “Should Maria need any assistance whatsoever, please call Reiner. My office will only be too glad to help out.”

“That’s very kind of you,” you sighed. “I was actually calling about that, Your Excellency.”

“Oh?” How virginal you sounded. The very thought of it made him wish he could reach through the phone and shove his fingers up your skirt.

“If you aren’t too busy, Mr. Ackerman would like to set a meeting for early this afternoon. We can have brunch brought up, if you’d prefer.

Nile let out a hearty laugh. All this time, he thought he had been discreet about his Friday night-Saturday morning whereabouts. Apparently not. 

“Very good. You’ve done your homework.” He found himself smiling through his drink. No wonder those bastards at Parliament were so smug after granting her favours.

“Shall we be seeing you then, Prime Minister?” you pressed.

Oh, yes. By all means, yes. He turned the bottle of brandy around and carefully replaced it on the rack. It wouldn’t do to run out when the fun began. “As it is, I’m free today. You and Levi may drop by later this morning.”

You sounded surprised by this first name familiarity. “You’re old friends with Mr. Ackerman?”

“You might say that.” If old friends meant they were both acquainted with Erwin Smith and had been introduced once or twice, after which Nile only thought of Levi as an aside when he fantasized about how beautiful you would look with your mouth stuffed full of his cock, then yes, they were old friends.

“I’ll be seeing you soon, my dear. And Mr. Braun, too. He will be joining us,” Nile added, his tone suggestive. If you had done your research as he expected, you would understand completely what he meant. Nile winked at Reiner. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all!” you replied, just as breezily as ever. “Thank you, Mr. Dawk. See you soon.”

Nile lay the phone on the bar, gently, reverently. He grinned at Reiner. “We’re getting laid, my boy!”

\---

“Lunch meeting,” you announced.

“Well, then!” Hange dusted her hands, satisfied. “Chew on this before you go: there are talks about the Titans releasing an official video denying the Mitras Airport bombing. And, Nick’s been calling His Excellency these past few days, complaining about money and pleading for him to do everything to keep the Aid Bill from passing.”

You started in surprise. “Nick’s going to make the broadcast himself?”

“He won’t,” Levi said. His cigarette had burnt into an ashy stub. “That coward won’t show himself. Besides, that broadcast is for another audience.” His gaze slid over to your confused frown, looking at you like you were a dull student he was simply obliged to humour. “Think. How happy do you think this common corporate sponsor would be to find out that he was simultaneously supporting the Titans and Nile Dawk, who could be complicit to a law proposing to grant aid for the extermination of the Titans?”

“Not happy at all -” you began when the answer dawned on you. “Oh.”

“Yes,” Levi nodded. “Any official denial is made for only one audience: the Titans’, and Nile’s, sponsor.”

“To show that they didn’t mess up,” you picked up the thread of the conversation and swivelled to Hange, who was nodding sagely along. “Nile Dawk’s going to get official Sinian investigations to announce that the Mitras Airport bombing was not the handiwork of the Titans.”

“Smart girl.” Levi pushed his chair back, stood, and dusted his hands. “Now do you understand what you’re going to get Nile to do today?”

You looked at him dubiously. “Nile won’t order investigations to accuse the Titans.” Especially, you neglected to add, since there isn’t any trace of Titan involvement at all.

Levi shrugged. “It’s simple enough for him to do. The investigators are already under the Minority’s thumb. Nile should be able to order them around without a problem.”

“We just talked about why he won’t do it,” you pointed out.

He met you with an exasperated look. “That’s why you’re coming with me. Or did you think you were tagging along for a free fuck while Hange and I break our heads negotiating this?”

“Levi!” Hange scolded. She shot you an apologetic look, checking to see if he had touched a nerve. You only laughed.

“You’re horrid, Levi. Beginning with that filthy mouth of yours.”

He snorted. “Don’t overestimate a man who thinks with his dick. And Nile Dawk’s brain is his dick.”

“He’s also a hard man -” Hange began in warning.

Levi cut her off. “She likes that sort.” He nodded at you. “Very much.”

The crease on Hange’s forehead deepened. “I meant that Nile is the vengeful sort. He was always known to be a hard negotiator. Probably still is.” She gave you a pointed look. “He’s going to get the most of his bargain. Be careful.”

You smiled thinly.

Levi rose and smoothed his suit jacket. “Play your cards right,” he said to you. “Erwin’s managed to get the bill calendared. First Reading, and first vote, is coming up. We’ll be needing those doctored investigation reports.”

“If that’s all,” Hange muttered darkly, unwilling to let the matter go, “She’s safer spending the night with Gunther Shultz.”

“She’ll be hitting two birds with one stone,” Levi retorted. “Headstart on preventing the veto vote, too.”

Hange was shaking her head. “That’s a lot of wishful thinking.”

His eyes narrowed. She looked at him, stubborn. You looked between them and supposed that, as the subject of their argument, you ought to speak up. “I’ll be careful, Hange,” you promised. “It will be fine.”

Levi smirked triumphantly, grasped your elbow, and steered you towards the door. Just before you left, Hange called out,

“Take care of her, Levi!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine the process for passing laws in Sina to be: proposed law (Bill) is sponsored by an M.P. The bill is scheduled to be read (heard) thrice, and debated on the second reading. If the bill passes all three readings, the Prime Minister has twenty-four hours to veto the bill. If not vetoed, the bill becomes law.


	3. Chapter 3

Reiner met you at the door. Levi strode past his greeting and made a beeline for Nile Dawk, who was in his robe, smirking by the mini bar.

“Dressing for dinner not your thing, Dawk?” Levi remarked, waving aside the proffered glass of spirits as he went to lean against the bar beside the Prime Minister.

Nile’s eyes danced over to you, sweeping up from your sleek heels, to the coy slit of your dress over your left thigh, to the light coat draped around your shoulders. 

“No sense getting all dressed up if it’s just going to come off.” His smirk widened as he tilted his head meaningfully at you. “Drink, my dear?”

“Only after business, Excellency,” you replied evenly, sashaying over and sliding onto a barstool between the men. Nile’s hand settled atop the sliver of skin peeking from your dress. You eased his hand away. “That’s for after business, too.”

He smiled, all teeth. “Then we’d best get this meeting done and over with.” He caught you glancing down his robe and inched closer, stretching an arm across the bar behind you, mouth dipping to your ear.

“Would you like to get comfortable?” An exploring thumb caught the fabric of your coat and tugged slightly as he nodded at the lounge set across the room. “Reiner can take your coat, and we can all talk over there.”

“How about you and Mr. Ackerman do the talking -” His nose brushed your cheek as you turned towards him. A little closer and he was going to start nuzzling your neck. “- and I’ll stay here with Reiner.”

“Can’t have you come all the way here for nothing.” The thumb at your coat turned into a hand around your upper arm. He looked at Levi on your other side. “We can talk here. Let’s make it quick.”

Levi shrugged. “No problem. We only came to see if we could get an advance update on the investigation findings at the Mitras Airport.”

“What for?” Nile replied airily, stroking your arm. “It will be officially announced soon, and you’ll have the full report same as everybody else.”

You and Levi exchanged looks. Then you uncrossed your legs and moved to slide off the bar stool. “In that case, we’re so very sorry to have taken your precious time, Excellency.”

Your coat slid off one shoulder as you stood, revealing the low-cut back of what at first seemed to be a conservative, meeting-appropriate dress. You extricated yourself from Nile’s grasp, shrugging off your coat completely before attempting to retrieve it from the Prime Minister. 

Nile crushed the fabric in his fist.

“Please, Mr. Dawk,” you pleaded. “We don’t want to waste any more of your time.”

“Let’s skip the pleasantries.” He lay the coat over your vacated seat and looked directly at Levi, jaw knotted with tension. “What will it take for you to leave this cunt here for us to play with?”

Levi’s gaze flicked between him and Reiner. “Both of you?”

“Can’t take it?” Nile sneered.

Levi scoffed. “It’ll cost you.”

“How much?”

Reiner, who had heretofore only stood quietly waiting for his orders, came up behind you, arms coming down to cage you against the bar. If he meant to intimidate, he was failing at it. You pressed your backside against his crotch and ground. He jolted in surprise. Levi glanced at him in thinly veiled amusement.

The whole exchange left Nile’s eyes darkening in lust. “How much?” he repeated hoarsely.

“Not much,” Levi replied. “Just investigation reports confirming Titan involvement in the Mitras Airport bombing. And Minority support for the Aid Bill.”

Nile bared his teeth. “You’re joking. No bitch is worth that.”

“Think so?” You shrugged Reiner off in favour of sidling up to the Prime Minister, letting a hand catch on the belt of his robe before travelling further down, the backs of your fingers brushing over his clothed cock. You pouted up at him. “Not even me, Daddy?”

Nile’s face crumpled, resolve melting away as you pawed at his crotch.

“What will it be, Nile?” Levi prompted. “She’s hot and bothered. You don’t want her, we’ll leave and I’ll fuck her myself.”

“Damn you, Levi.”

Your hand was sinking through the folds of his robe into his underwear, stroking feather-light touches over his hot length. Nile sucked in a shaky breath. Reiner crowded you from behind, skimming touches down your bare back until he came to grip your hips. Obligingly, you bent at the waist, face drawing closer to Nile’s growing erection.

A red flush raced up the Prime Minister’s neck at the sight.

“Don’t you want me, Daddy?” you murmured, eyes never leaving his as you pumped him slowly.

His breath hitched. He tore his gaze away with monumental effort. “Fine. We’ll get the report out as you like.”

You found the tip of his cock and thumbed the oozing slit. “And Minority support?”

He smiled a sharp smile, akin to baring fangs. “Don’t push your luck.”

You squeezed his cock. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

The eyes that looked at you were glazed over and nearly mad with lust. His fists were clenched so tight the knuckles turned white.

“Every time the bil makes it through a reading, I’ll give you a celebratory fuck,” you promised. “Could be just you and me. Or could be...with anyone you choose.” You wriggled against Reiner’s hips. “How about it?”

“God, girl!” He bucked into your hands, eyes squeezing shut, jaw slack with desire. “Deal.”

You straightened, withdrew your hand, and wiped them on his robe, leaving streaks of glistening wetness on the plush cotton. Nile’s eyes flew open.

“What the hell?” He was too hard, and was throbbing.

Pushing away Reiner’s hands, you straightened your dress and went to stand beside Levi, who looked thoroughly smug.

“Change your mind about her worth, Nile?”

Nile hissed at him.

“When the report comes out,” you said coolly, “I’ll let you cum.”

“Bitch!”

“I’ll wait,” you replied sweetly. “Go on. Make your phone calls. Shouldn’t take long for the official statement to be televised if the Prime Minister wills it. It’ll be just in time for the afternoon news.”

Strutting over to the lounge, you switched on the television and sat down. The noontime anchor was just getting ready to launch into a recital of the local news. Nile retrieved his phone and punched in a number, all the while glaring at Levi, who had sauntered over to you.

The bombing remained on the headlines, with endless footage of dusty grey rubble and the flashing red and blue lights of rescue vehicles. Search dogs had been brought to the scene, and were combing through the debris for survivors.

“...everything else can be classified information!” Nile Dawk griped into his phone. “What to tell Shadis? Who the hell cares? Tell the old fart anything! Just get this announced ASAP.” A pause. “The video? Endorse it pending further investigation and then shut down that investigation for good!”

Nile stalked over to join you and Levi, flopping down onto the opposite couch. Levi eyed the tent in his crotch with distaste. Nile curled his lip back. 

“Don’t give me that look. She’ll be sucking this all afternoon.”

The phone he just abandoned rang. Reiner picked it up, had a quiet conversation, and called to his boss, “It’s going to be reported now.”

As if on cue, the news anchor eased from rescue operations to attack attribution. With all the confidence of reading prompts without thinking to be surprised by the news they carried, 

“Just in: investigators have finally confirmed Titan involvement in the Mitras Airport bombing. Taking a cue from the confession video gone viral, authorities combing the scene believe they have stumbled upon clear evidence of the Titan’s hand. With this discovery, further investigation will now be turned over the special anti-terror squad…”

Levi snickered. “Nice touch, considering the Sina police has no anti-terror squad.”

“Only the best service.” Rolled eyes.

“Not so hard, was it?”

Nile grinned wolfishly, attention moving over to you. “But I am.” He sat slouched, legs spread, erection on display. “You’ll pay for it. Reiner, see Mr. Ackerman out.”

Levi waved him away; stood. “Return her in one piece.”

“We’ll try.”

He saw himself out. 

Nile beckoned you to his lap. You rose, kicked off your heels, and perched obediently on his knees. He was instantly upon you, shoving off your dress, kissing the exposed skin as he went. You settled back against him, letting him pull your dress off you so that by the time Reiner returned from locking the door, you were only in your panties.

“No bra,” the Prime Minister announced, cupping one breast and thumbing your nipple. He sounded excessively pleased. “She came ready for a dicking.”

You nestled against his shoulder as his subordinate came up to kneel before you. Reiner discarded your panties and bent your legs up and apart.

“How is she?” Nile’s voice was muffled. He was busy sucking a mark onto your nape.

“Beautiful.” Reiner dragged the flat of his tongue up your sex and nipped at your clit. Tension wound tight in your belly, and you clenched as he plunged two fingers inside you. 

Nile made a satisfied noise. Face still buried in your hair, he reached down, skimmed up and down your wet folds, and pushed a finger in to join Reiner’s. You groaned. He chuckled, pumped gently, and withdrew to swipe at your lips with sticky fingers. You opened your mouth without being told, tongue swirling around his salty, heady finger. 

“Think you taste good?” Nile eased his finger out and fell back against the couch, taking you with him. His arms were wound tight around your ribcage, just under your breasts, squeezing so it hurt ever so slightly to breathe.

Your eyes slid shut, moans rumbling from your throat as Reiner worked you slick. Nile pressed a careless kiss to your temple and reached down, palms against your thighs, to pull your knees to your chest, exposing you completely. You heard a belt buckle come undone. Reiner’s thick fingers curled; brushed hard against the throbbing, insistent arousal inside you. Then you were empty, and calloused thumbs were spreading you wide open for the searing cock tearing its way inside you.

You gasped short little screams, wriggling in a desperate attempt to soothe the burning. Nile’s grip dug into your skin, keeping you in place. “Hold still,” he cooed into your ear. “He’ll tear you up if you keep squirming like that.”

You moaned in discomfort and braced yourself against Nile’s arms. The head of Reiner’s cock pushed in. You cried out, painfully full.

“Not so smug now, huh?” he grunted, rocking his hips, with every thrust forcing himself slightly deeper inside you. “We warned you. You’re going to pay dearly for those favours.” He swiped roughly at your clit, sending a shudder down your spine. “I’m going to wreck your little cunt.”

In one hard thrust, he sheathed himself completely, then began rutting so fast your screams could barely keep up. Reiner was too much. Too big, too hard, too rough.

He was going to break you.

Involuntary tears leaked out the corners of your tightly screwed eyes.

“Awww, look at that,” Nile jeered. “She’s crying. Can’t handle Reiner, little one? You should have said so.”

You were gasping for breath.

“Pull out.” As Reiner slid out of you, Nile moved you to lie lengthwise on the couch. Your eyes blinked open in time to see Reiner climb back between your legs.

You whined for mercy.

There was none. He dragged your ass onto his lap, hooked your legs around his waist, and filled you again and again. Nile rid himself of his own clothes. His cock, already half-hard from your earlier teasing, was angry and swollen now. Wrapping your hair around his fist, he dragged your head to the edge of the couch and forced himself into your mouth. 

“You were so eager,” he growled, almost vengefully. Tears streamed down your cheeks as every single one of Reiner’s thrusts slammed inside you. As you hiccuped for breath, Nile bucked into your mouth.

“Suck,” he ordered, relishing the distressed look on your face. “Mind your teeth. I don’t want to have to give you a whipping.”

The threat of pain sent a shot of panic through you. Reiner groaned as you clenched around him. “Fuck,” he gasped, motions stuttering. “Dirty little bitch. You like being hurt, is that it?”

You shook your head as best you could, but your protests died, muffled around Nile’s eager dick. It was all you could do to claw at Reiner’s thighs. He pinched you between the legs, hard, and you gasped, back curling and cunt tightening as you gagged on Nile’s cock. 

Reiner growled at the sight, thrust violently, and came on your stomach. Nile pulled away from your mouth, took Reiner’s place, and humped against your slick folds. In spite of yourself, your hips jerked up at the friction on your abused clitoris, craving the sensation, desperate for release after all you endured.

Nile stroked the handprints on your hips, his praise for you spilling like a litany. You dug the heels of your palms over your eyes and bit your lip as the urgency inside you wound up to an impossible tension. All thought melted from your mind, suffused with the sensation of Nile’s cock rubbing against you, and your own climax just slightly out of reach.

You keened, so very nearly there, when Nile suddenly entered you. Wet heat exploded inside and you came, screaming, legs shaking. He loomed over you, suckling a breast and prodding at your clenched asshole with a slippery knuckle as he emptied into you.

“Whatever you want.” The murmur was but a breath against your skin. “I’ll get you everything you want, and then I’m going to fuck your ass.”

\---

To their credit, the men let you stay on the couch for as long as you needed. Reiner got dressed and promptly went to check on emails. The Prime Minister shrugged on a robe, scanning your limp body approvingly as he did, then padded away for a rejuvenating smoke.

For what seemed like the longest time, you lay catching your breath. The news anchor was bidding everybody a good day as the credits rolled on and a documentary replaced the news. You supposed you drifted off in exhaustion, because when you came to again, the television was switched off and you were alone.

Gingerly, you got up, wincing at the dried cum cracking against your skin. You washed yourself, got dressed, gathered your things, and left the empty suite.

The hotel lobby was bright with the orange glow of evening lamps and filled with a mishmash of guests elegantly dressed for dinner, and tourists straggling inside after a long day. You pulled your coat tighter around yourself and tried not to scurry away. Despite your self-consciousness, you told yourself that nobody could tell what you’d been up to and nobody was shooting you knowing looks.

You hurried out of the hotel and had just made it to the street when someone grabbed your elbow. You jerked in surprise, coming face-to-face with Levi. He guided you to a waiting car.

Diplomatic plate.

You shot him a questioning look. He opened the door for you, saw you inside, and strolled around to the driver’s seat like he did this everyday. The car hummed to life. You stared at him. He caught your chin between his thumb and index fingers, gently turned your face this way and that, and nodded, apparently satisfied with whatever he saw. Then he pulled out of his parking spot and drove towards the city’s business-residential district.

Towards his place.

“How are you?” The question was quiet, barely heard above the soft music from the car stereo.

“Okay.”

“They hurt you?”

A shrug. “Bit rough.”

Eyes flicked towards you, taking in the twiddling thumbs and the way you stared out the car window. “Sore?”

Your mouth twisted. Briefly. “Very.”

He reached over to wrap an arm around you, pulling you to himself and pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. “You’re staying with me tonight.”

“Okay.”

He held you as he drove. You fell asleep wondering how long he waited for you.

\---

Grisha Jaeger was not given to displays of temper, but his lackeys knew exactly when he was displeased and when they were in trouble.

Pastor Nick knew that he was in trouble.

“Really, Nick,” Grisha sighed into the phone, mild tones belying his irritation. “How could you have been so...persuasive?” He spoke with just the slightest hint of exasperation. “It’s all well and good to win supporters in Maria. But in Sina?” He shook his head. “And more violent supporters, at that!”

Pastor Nick scrubbed at his forehead and grumbled, “But that’s just what I’m saying! The Titans don’t have a Sina cell. We never distributed propaganda or actively tried to recruit from there!”

“They’re here anyway,” Grisha said, weary of this whole exchange. “The police have gotten in on the act, too.”

Nick squawked, electric voice jarring through the receiver. “What about Nile? He lost control of the police! Because of him, support for the Aid Bill has gone up!”

Grisha swivelled his chair; tilted it back to stare at his ceiling. Here in his private office, the beams were all exposed, all antique wood and still very sturdy. Only a select handful knew of this secret study of his, nestled at the very heart of his perpetually festive home. The idea that he could at one minute be hosting an elegant soiree, and at the next minute have completely fallen off the face of the earth, appealed to Grisha very much.

He slipped off his shoes and parked both feet on the edge of the mahogany desk. His seat tipped dangerously low. 

“I’ll deal with Nile Dawk in my own way and in my own time. You need only to think of fixing this mess.”

“But there’s not enough cash -”

“Make do!” Grisha’s snapped. Pastor Nick flinched. “I gave you funds and you have nothing to show for it! I won’t hear of your asking for more until I see results in Sina.”

Nick managed to stammer an affirmative. “By Monday,” he promised, babbling, “a huge show. A high-profile kill.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Then he remembered something. “If you’re targeting the Embassy by any chance, remember: leave my Eren unhurt.”

Halfway through Nick’s surprised chatter (How did you guess it’s going to be the Embassy?), Grisha repeated, “Mind my son,” before abruptly ending the call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really surprised to discover that Nile Dawk/Reader smut was a thing??? I picked him because I thought he could pull off being a perverted Prime Minister but also because I thought it would make for icky smut. But I guess I stand corrected lol. Let me know what you think of Nile smut!


	4. Chapter 4

For the briefest of moments, you felt a twinge of guilt as your car cruised up the driveway to Parliament, and you remembered how you spent the weekend bribing a top government official with sex.

But it had always been like this. People were complicated enough. Factor in self-interest, particularly the kind brought on by a position of power, and they became downright unpredictable.

Unpredictability was frowned upon in your line of work. Things were more effective like this.

Your car drove around to the back entrance. The VIP entrance, it was colloquially called, where a security guard waited to open your door. You stepped out, shoving all thoughts of Nile Dawk and the morality versus the necessity of bribery from your mind, and accepted the Guest Pass handed to you.

The antique iron door of the VIP entrance was a familiar sight. Back in your days of being First Secretary, you were frequently sent here on note-taking errands. But today, you were here to observe proceedings concerning a matter in which you actively participated.

That made it personal.

The back entrance opened to a marble foyer littered with invited spectators, all milling and mingling, chatting with fellow VIPs. You checked your time. Ten minutes to session.

“We don’t normally expect such a large turnout to First Reading.”

You started, the voice having rumbled low behind you. It was Nile, sidling towards you on the pretense of being better heard in the din of the crowd.

He smiled widely. Smug.

You inclined your head politely. “Your Excellency.”

Nile’s eyes narrowed, his tone dropping. “Thought Levi would send somebody else. Guess you haven’t learnt your lesson.” A snicker crept into his voice. He spoke directly into your ear. “Or maybe you really are just a horny bitch.”

“Or maybe I’m here to make sure you keep your promise,” you retorted sweetly. The crowd had begun to coalesce, coming together in single file as they moved towards the session hall.

Nile saw them, as well as the aide who signalled to him above the moving heads. He nodded back and swiftly tugged you to himself.

“West Annex, top floor, end of the hall. That’s my office. Look for Reiner. Say you have a meeting with me. I expect you after this session.” And without another word, he released you, trotting over to his aide, who was holding open a black robe. Nile shrugged into it and swept into the session hall, leaving you to find your own way inside.

The M.P.s settled down for a relaxed morning. From his seat, Erwin saw you and attempted to catch your eye. His smile wilted into a tight pursing of the lips when he noticed your rigid posture and the furtive glances you kept throwing at Nile.

You noticed Erwin’s efforts but adamantly refused to turn his way.

Session passed quickly. Proposed bills were either passed or dismissed sans fanfare - indeed, with much boredom. As the Aid Bill made it into Second Reading, the relief in your gut turned into heavy dread. 

_West Annex, top floor, end of the hall._

The gavel came down, marking the last of the day’s business. Pointedly ignoring Erwin’s stare, you rose with the other spectators and shuffled with their single file back to the holding rooms, where you lingered for as long as possible, watching the foyer empty until there were only three of you - a man and a woman, both in black suits and talking animatedly together, and yourself, trying not to appear out of place.

When you believed it safe, you began the trek up to West Annex, top floor, end of the hall. And there, right outside the great doors to the Parliamentary offices and the rest of the building, stood Erwin, tall and blond and distressed and annoyed all at once.

He strode towards you - you who, unable to decide on any single expression, ultimately settled on painfully guilty.

The huge ancient doors creaked. Slammed shut.

“I’d like to have a word.” Save for the obligatory security personnel, the main lobby of Parliament was empty. You imagined Erwin’s voice to resonate up and around the marble chamber. He took a step towards you. You twitched. 

“We can talk privately here.” He indicated a small holding room. You allowed yourself to be led inside. He locked the door. Now assuredly alone, he strolled towards you, hands in pockets. Deceptively calm. Appraising.

“What’s the matter?”

You stared at his shoes and refused to answer.

“I noticed you’ve been looking at Nile a lot. Don’t go making me jealous, now.”

Your head snapped up. Your gaze instantly sank into those blue depths.

The frustration welling up inside you must have showed on your face because Erwin’s expression cracked; became just a little bit uncertain. He retrieved his hands from his pockets.

“Really. What’s the matter? You look frightened.”

“I do not.” Much too strained. You tore your gaze from his.

“You cut a deal with Nile, didn’t you?”

“You already know that.”

“Yes,” he said, impatient. “But this early? It’s the second reading you need to watch out for. You know that.”

“I know,” you gritted through your teeth. “But plans change.”

He appraised you. “How many deals did you make with Nile?”

“You’re not my father!” you snapped before you could think. Erwin’s mouth contorted into an unreadable expression.

“I think you mean: that’s state matter. It’s none of your business.”

You swallowed hard. “Yes. That.” Wrung hands wrenched apart only to clench and unclench. You bit your lips and sidestepped him, intending to let yourself out and get your business with Nile done and over with. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Erwin walked you to the door. His hand closed over the one you had wrapped around the handle.

“You don’t have to look at me,” he murmured, reverting once more to that reasonable tone, “but I hope you’ll listen. As I’m sure you already know, Nile Dawk is a difficult man. He likes being in control. He will hurt you.”

“I’ve been warned.”

“And you’re still going to see him? You look terrified.”

He was right. Your chest rumbled with dread and your palms were beginning to dampen. But you raised your chin; glared at the gilt wood panes of the door. “I’ve been terrified plenty of times in this line of work. But you and I both know that’s no excuse for going back on a promise.” Slowly, you turned to him. “Thanks for your concern. I’ll be okay. I always have.”

He let go. Unconvinced. Heart-heavy.

Cheeks flushing with adrenaline, you pushed down the handle, shoved the door open, and made your way to West Annex, top floor, end of the hall.

\---

“You’re late,” were the first words out of Nile’s mouth when Reiner led you through the chaos of the Prime Minister’s suites, past his private sitting room, and finally, office.

Nile had, apparently, been waiting for some time, and had draped himself over a leather couch, arms resting along the backrest. He took up all the space. The door to the private sitting room shut and clicked locked. You glanced over your shoulder. Reiner was gone.

Still lusting after that fat cock?” Nile sneered. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it up to you.” Gesturing vaguely, “I’ve got a meeting in a couple of hours, so let’s make the most of this. Take off your clothes but keep your shoes on.”

Nothing unusual. Most men liked the sight of a woman in nothing but high heels. Most men fantasized about fucking women clad only in high heels. You removed your blazer, pulled your dress over your head, and peeled away your stockings and underwear. Left them draped over the back of an armchair.

Then you stood naked in front of Nile.

He studied you a moment. Twirled a finger in the air. “Turn around. I want to look at you properly.”

Feeling acutely like a common prostitute, you obeyed. When you had swivelled 180 degrees, Nile ordered you to stop. Sounding maliciously gleeful,

“Bend over and masturbate.”

You whipped around. “You’re taking too much advantage of this!” Embarrassment spread from your cheeks down to your neck and chest.

He laughed. “Wasn’t that the point? Go on. And do genuinely enjoy touching yourself. I want you soaking wet.”

You glared.

“You should have laid down limits when you made me this offer.” He made a get-on-with-it motion. “Hurry. You’re on budgeted time. If you don’t get me off today, Minority might rethink its support for the Aid Bill. Second Reading is not far off, you know.”

Gritting your teeth, you swivelled away from him and reluctantly bent forward, resting your hands on your knees. The backs of your legs extended awkwardly, and the position left you feeling humiliatingly exposed. From where Nile sat, you heard the shuffling off of clothes.

“I don’t want to have to tell you a third time,” he warned. “And be sure you don’t make a sound. Can’t have the others catching wind of our fun, huh?”

Staring resolutely at the carpeted floor, you gingerly let your hand drift to your bare sex. At the very least, you wouldn’t have to look at Nile and could pretend that he wasn’t there and that you weren’t just being made to put on a show.

You forced yourself to relax. Closed your eyes as you found your clit. Imagined pleasanter circumstances and a more desirable partner as you rubbed yourself.

Imagining Levi was always a good idea. During your countless assignations, he had always known how to touch you, and where. You pushed two fingers inside yourself with a groan, holding on to the remembrance of Levi filling you just like that, penetrating to the knuckles, stroking that one perfect spot that always made you weak in the knees…

You fucked yourself more urgently, lips parted in a breathless, panting whisper.

Levi, Levi…

“Fuck.”

Your eyes flew open, daydream shattered. Your fingers went through the motions of the last mechanical pumps and slipped out. You were dripping wet, and thoroughly aroused.

Nile’s next order was strained.

“Get down. On your hands and knees. Ass up.”

You knelt. He came up to you, polished Italian shows nudging your legs further apart. “What a cunt,” he groaned, grabbing a fistful of your wetness before suddenly driving three digits inside.

You squeaked, legs instinctively shuffling open to accommodate the intrusion.

“Ah, yes.” He shoved his fingers in as far as they would go and scissored experimentally inside you. You whimpered. “I remember you like being hurt.”

“No -”

He thrust into you without warning, cursed, and began a punishing pace, every once in a while smacking your bottom hard.

You bit the insides of your cheeks and swallowed every rising sound. Nile was rougher than before; if possible, rougher than even Reiner. He spared no thought for your comfort or pleasure. As one hand clutched at your waist, the other explored, stroking the skin of your back and thighs, hefting the flesh of your ass.

“What happened to all that feistiness? Did I fuck it all away?” He reached for your breasts, and rolled a nipple between his fingers. A moan managed to stutter out of you.

He crowed. “Do I feel that good? So good you need to tell the whole office just how well I’m fucking you?” He drove into you so hard and fast the arms holding you up collapsed. “Won’t it be funny if I get you pregnant?” He snarled, withdrawing suddenly and shoving you onto your side.

You looked up at him in horror and saw nothing but a wicked grin and salacious eyes.

“I can just imagine it.” He pried your legs open, took himself in hand, and slammed back into you. “A nameless, worthless little foreign secretary -” He mouthed under your collarbone, panting with the effort, “- knocked up with the Prime Minister’s brat. I’d like to see the look on Levi’s face!”

The insides of your cheeks stung from being bitten too hard. It burned where Nile kept up his relentless battering, but you told yourself that it would be over before you knew it. If you left him to his fantasies - maybe even played along - he would climax soon enough and leave you well alone.

“Here.” Rough, careless fingers found your clitoris and kneaded hard. “If you’re going to get pregnant, it might as well be from love-making.”

He thrust violently to emphasize, and you squealed as pain spasmed where he struck. This, apparently, amused Nile no end, because he repeated the motion, watching you flush and squirm under the joint effort of remaining quiet and easing the ache.

“You’re tightening up.” Where he held you, his nails began to plant crescents into your skin. “You really enjoy being hurt.”

“I don’t!” you gasped, torn up outside and bruised inside, every brutal contact scattering a fresh wave of pain across your pelvis. “No, Excellency, I can’t. It hurts-”

A hand clamped down over your mouth, silencing your screams as Nile ravaged you. You were openly sobbing when, with a swallowed roar, he sheathed himself deep inside you and climaxed, spewing endless seed into your abused body.

You curled in on yourself, attempting to silence your little cries with both hands over your mouth. 

He withdrew, knelt in front of you, and wrenched your wrists apart. “Suck.”

You were shuddering. Hiccupping. Unable to move, unable to speak. He grabbed your hair, propped up your head, and pressed his penis inside your mouth. “Clean it up well.”

Still sobbing, you obediently licked him clean. He stroked your cheek with his free hand, rubbing the tear tracks all over your face. “You’re most beautiful like this. I have to work you up to this state more often.”

When he had had enough, he tugged you off, then got dressed. He summoned Reiner, who merely spared you a passing glance.

“How long until I have to leave for the Chamber of Commerce meeting?” 

While you eased onto your elbows, wincing at the sensation of semen dripping down your thighs, Nile was doing up his cuffs, a tie already draped around his neck.

“Fifteen minutes.”

He cocked his head in your direction. “Get her out before then.” And without another look, he strode towards the adjoining sitting room. You heard the opening and closing of cabinets followed by the clink of glass.

The post-fuck drink in lieu of the post-fuck smoke.

Reiner produced a packet of wet tissues, which he tossed your way. “Did he come in you?”

You nodded, drawing a shaky breath.

His nose wrinkled. “You get it on the carpet, you’re cleaning it up. Pull yourself together. Quit snivelling. Make sure you don’t look like shit when you leave this office. You have ten minutes.” He threw you a disgusted look and slammed the door on his way out.

Exactly ten minutes later, you emerged from the Prime Minister’s office complexes, smeared makeup wiped off, hair reasonably finger combed and patted down, and clothes just the tiniest bit rumpled. The only hint of anything amiss was the faint pink rimming your eyes and nose. A fresh coat of lipstick masked the post-crying mottling around your mouth.

Nile’s staff were too excited about what to have for lunch to scrutinize your appearance. You slipped out inconspicuously. 

On your way down the Top Floor, West Annex halls, your phone rang. You fished it out. Erwin. There was no chance to answer it. He was already standing in front of the elevator bays. The click of your heels grew still. He lowered his phone and then was striding towards you, eyebrows knitted.

You squared your shoulders and resisted the urge to run. He met you halfway. Scanned your face.

“You were crying.”

Nile and Reiner emerged from the Prime Minister’s suites. Nile looked pleased to see Erwin, ignoring you completely as he strolled up to the taller man.

“Dropping by for a visit?”

Erwin fought to keep his tone neutral. He ground his jaw. “You might say that.”

“Too bad.” Nile tried to look regretful. “I was just leaving for a lunch meeting. Maybe we can talk when I return.”

“Maybe you’ll be busy with another woman then,” came the retort, “making her cry.”

Nile finally looked at you and feigned shock. “You haven’t left yet? I’ll be happy to drop you off.”

Erwin stepped in front of you. Hulking, like he was getting ready to fight. “Thank you, but we have business to discuss over lunch. I’ll take care of her.”

Nile’s carefully constructed mask crumpled into a malicious sneer. “ _Take care_ to act like a gentleman, Erwin. You don’t want to make her cry.”

“You’re more than capable of that for the two of us.”

Nile clicked his tongue, cast a final look at you, and stalked away. Only when he was safely ensconced inside the elevator and on the way downstairs did Erwin’s posture relax. He sighed and faced you.

You couldn’t meet his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that.”

He shook off the last traces of his anger and tried to speak lightly. “I was just going to ask if you wanted to grab some lunch.”

You shook your head.

“Tea?” He coaxed, even though you had, several times, overheard him professing a distaste for even the smell of the beverage. “It’ll make you feel better.”

You admired his effort, but were just in no mood to humour him. Again you refused. “I’m fine. I just need to get back to the Embassy.”

“Let me walk you down at least?”

You relented, and together stepped into a waiting elevator. As the steel doors slid shut, Erwin casually asked,

“Think you’ll ever tell me why you were crying?”

The lump in your throat was hardest to swallow. “No.” You stood at a corner, as far as possible from Erwin, who watched the floor numbers steadily decrease. After a moment, he spoke again, this time more seriously.

“This is your game,” he said. “You shouldn’t let anyone beat you at it.”

You did not reply, but raised your eyes and stared at the back of his blond head.

“It’s a lot easier than you think. Just remember how you snared Nile Dawk and those others into it.” He glanced at you over his shoulder. The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. “Men are easy to manipulate. You knew that when you started this.”

The elevator dinged; shuddered to a stop as it reached the ground floor. 

“Don’t let anyone make you cry again.” He stepped aside and smiled as you passed. You gaped up at him. “Go. The Embassy needs looking after.”

You stumbled out. He remained, waving goodbye. In another moment, the elevator doors closed again and he vanished, going up, up, up with the rising numbers.

Your car was waiting in front of the building. 

It was only later, when you were driving past the Mitras cityscape, did you realize that in the confusion after Nile, you didn’t call your driver to let him know you were ready to leave.

That thought, and the remembrance of Erwin, left a strangely warm fluttering in your chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Editing like mad. Two chapters in a (loooooonng) day. I'm smashed.
> 
> Thoughts on abusive!Nile???


	5. Chapter 5

Trouble smelled tangy, with a hint of oxidised metal. 

Mike was familiar with the scent. And today, the air around the Embassy smelled tangy, with a heavy basenote of rust.

He found Marco in the security offices, watching CCTV screens with a worried wrinkle on his forehead, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Something wrong?”

Marco nodded, pointing at the feed displaying the lawn outside the building, set up with canopies to protect the refugees from the elements. He traced the queue of people from there down to the gates, outside it, and around the block.

“There’s been a sudden influx of people all morning. We’re out of room as it is, but they keep coming.” Indeed, what publicly accessible bit of the grounds overflowed with people. “We’ve begun screening new arrivals, letting in only those with Marian passports -”

“Let me guess,” Mike sighed, “they all have Marian passports.”

“We can’t deny our citizens entry into their own Embassy, especially if they happen to have a true emergency.”

“Regular security protocols in order?” Back in the days when Maria suffered shortages of diplomats, Mike had been Embassy Manager and Consul General at the same, and remembered distinctly the nightmare a security breach could be.

“Of course,” Marco piped up, giving the other monitors a final scan before pushing away from his borrowed desk. “Jean’s on it. In-house personnel are all deployed alongside the local hires. Everyone’s worked several straight shifts just to keep riots from breaking out.”

“Maybe you could think about adding to your local force,” Mike suggested, keeping one eye on the screens as Marco consulted the master calendar - a whole wall of the security room transformed into a giant whiteboard tracking work shifts and conference room reservations.

“Sure, if we’re granted the budget.” Wry.

The conference rooms, located on the second floor, were all free this week. He tapped the blank spaces on the whiteboard. “If we move support functions to the second floor, we could use the additional ground floor space to accommodate people.”

“It might improve crowd control,” Mike shrugged. “Security will be able to streamline their shifts. The consulate will cooperate as best as we can.”

Marco beamed. “Great! I’ll go have a look at the conference rooms now. See if we can begin to organise this move.” He grabbed his jacket - dark, modestly decorated with a foreign service pin on the standing collar - and swung it on. “Thanks, Mike!”

Mike watched him go, that promising, bright-eyed boy. It took him a moment to realise that the metallic odour, now strangely organic - bloody - emanated strongest from Marco.

In the next split second, before Mike could even think of running after him, a dull thud rocked the Embassy, followed by another, and another, and another.

The CCTV footage went up in white smoke. The intercom screeched to life.

“Stampede!” The voice on the other end coughed, struggling to be heard over the din of panic and trampling of feet in the background. “Gas bombs were thrown through the first floor windows -”

Mike ripped the door open and was met with the terrified faces of back office staff. A supervisor was attempting to herd them to the emergency exits. Mike nodded at him.

“Evacuate everyone!”

Beyond the glass walls separating the back offices and the front line service desks, the Embassy stood shrouded in a thick fog. The acrid stench of chlorine gas seeped through the crevices.

Mike fumbled for his phone, rattled fingers jabbing clumsily at the screen as he shouted at the hesitating staff. “Leave everything! Get out of here!”

Jamming phone to ear, he stumbled back inside the security office. All first floor cameras were blinded by the smoke, but the ones on the second floor were still relatively clear. He scanned the footage of the hall outside the conference rooms, anxiously hoping to find Marco.

“Emergency services. What’s the trouble?” 

Mike started at the voice, suddenly remembering the dispatcher. The second floor appeared empty. “This is the Marian Embassy,” he choked out. “There’s been a gas attack. People are stampeding -”

A pair of figures in civilian attire appeared at the top floor stairs. Bandannas were wound around their noses and mouths. They darted down the hall, opening one door after another, pausing at the fourth, and entering it. The sunlight filtering through the front windows glinted silver as one of the two flicked his wrist.

“- Sir? Sir, how many people are involved?”

Mike swore under his breath. “Just now, we have at least two armed men on the loose. Send the police, ambulances. Hell, send the SWAT team if you have to!”

“How many people are involved, sir?” the operator repeated, an edge of urgency tingling her studiedly calm tones. 

“Too goddamn many!” And without waiting to hear more, ignoring the yelling behind him, warning him not to charge into the gas, Mike turned up his jacket collar, covered his nose and mouth as best as he could, and barrelled through the glass doors out of the back offices.

There was nobody else but him. Emergency services wouldn’t get to Marco in time.

\---

Twenty minutes away from the Embassy, the Director for Emergency Services himself called.

No, Levi was not available at the moment, but he’d be back in the afternoon. Yes, you were authorised to speak for him in his absence. Yes, if the Embassy itself called for assistance, that was sufficient consent to enter the premises.

You were just returning to the office yourself. Why? What was the matter? 

Your blood ran cold at the Director’s words. In the rearview mirror, you saw your face freeze into a mask of anguish. Your driver was unaware. His eyes were on the road, focused on getting you to your destination, never imagining the state of that destination as he drove.

“Thank you...for letting me know...” you managed to say into the phone, mind simultaneously whirring and floating away as if all this was just a horrible daydream and Levi was waiting to lecture you upon your return to the real world.

“Please…” you inhaled, and the air caught in your throat. How one day could suddenly plunge down several rungs of horror was beyond you. “...keep everyone safe. As best as you can. As many people as you can.”

\---

Mike took the steps two at a time. Gas swirled at his feet, creeping up in lazy tendrils along the old tile and antique rugs of the Embassy’s second floor as he thundered down the halls, flinging open every door he passed.

Empty. Empty. Empty. At the fourth one, his muscles coiled in anticipation.

Locked.

He roared, barrelling against it. On the other side, muffled voices rose in alarm. The door was solid wood and the equally antique lock and handle, brass. Mike rammed his shoulder against it again and again. It wouldn’t budge. He cursed, and ran back down the stairs.

In a corner of the security room were hidden extra firearms. Every Embassy officer, even though habitually unarmed, had to pass a course on gun handling, for use in case of emergency. And for one such emergency, a pistol was concealed behind an aged, creaky, rusting file cabinet.

The front line and visa counters were in shambles, security windows cracked and the _Employees Only_ door splintered open. The back offices fared no better, nearly fogged through, with chairs overturned and documents spilling from displaced desks.

Mike ran past it all. He scrambled into the security room and hauled the sorry file cabinet ajar. From a little hook behind it hung a bag containing a semi-automatic and twelve rounds of pre-loaded bullets.

With practised hands, he slammed the ammunition cartridge into the handle, cocked the gun, flew back upstairs, and fired into the locked fourth door. The gas had, by now, crept up to his knees. His eyes watered and his lungs burned.

The door splintered. He kicked at it. It ripped away from the heavy lock and swung inwards.

Chest heaving, Mike swept the room with his gun. Empty. He stepped inside. The window at the far end was open. He rushed towards it, and felt his shoe sink into squelching carpet.

The pale grey was soaked red. He followed the stain, which began on the other side of the massive conference table, and found a hand, stretched out and twisted, under a chair. The hand was connected to an arm, and the arm, to Marco.

Throat slit, face mutilated. One of his eyelids was missing. His nose had been slashed to pieces, and his lower jaw hung by a slender thread of muscle.

Mike stumbled several steps backwards as the bile rose in his throat.

\---

The Embassy was a warzone.

On the curb outside the gates, people flanked by ambulances nursed myriad injuries. Children wailed at the confusion. The wide open gates were manned by a pair of frazzled in-house security officers standing in for the local security group, which was busy cordoning off buildings in the compound and directing the crowd onto the lawns outside and around them.

The driveway fronting the Embassy building had been swept clean of stragglers, becoming instead a roundabout, temporary parking space, and loading/unloading area for the convoy of ambulances, police vehicles, and fire trucks. A collection of vans sporting the insigna of the city coroner’s office stood discreetly off to the side of the building, by the employees’ entrance.

Your driver stopped beside an ambulance and you hopped off just as a body bag emerged from the building, followed closely by a familiar blond head.

You rushed over to Mike, all questions, while a paramedic with a bottle of milk and towels doggedly tailed him, attempting to treat his obviously inflamed and irritated eyes.

“Mike!” You caught his arm. He glanced at you. A pained look crossed over his pale, red-splotched face and he shook you away, following the corpse as its bearers heaved it into the coroner’s van. The back of it was already stacked with bodies.

“Mike,” you pleaded again, clinging to his jacket. He reeked of chemicals. “Let the medics help you.”

The van door slammed shut and the two orderlies hurried to the cab. Its engine shuddered to life. Mike’s eyes streamed, though from the sting of the chlorine gas or from emotion, you couldn’t tell.

“That was Marco,” he croaked. The van pulled out of its parking spot and drove away with its morbid cargo. You beckoned to the paramedic, who was still hovering with her supplies. Together, you led Mike to the steps outside the employees’ entrance and sat him down. He folded without protest and did not resist when the woman washed his face and eyes with milk.

“They attacked him. Targeted him.” He spluttered milk. The hands on his knees curled; scraped compulsively at the material of his trousers. “Went upstairs. Bled him out in the conference room. Went to town on his face.” He choked. 

Trying not to let the mental image of Mike’s report take root in your imagination, you straightened and scanned the remains of your Embassy. People everywhere, but not a single staff member.

“Where is everyone?”

“Dead? Gone?” Mike shook his head, weary. “I don’t know.”

\---

By sunset, you were still wading through the confusion. With the Embassy Manager dead and the Consul General out of commission, it was up to you to direct some sort of relief. 

You managed to get hold of Jean, who was shouting orders and trying very hard not to lose his temper. Dark circles ringed his eyes, which were sunken with sleeplessness and grief. He and Marco were especially close.

“We’re stretched to the limit,” he said, waving out the last of the ambulances and coroner’s vans. The compound nevertheless remained lit up with the flashing lights of police vehicles and fire trucks, the latter which were still hosing down the Embassy from the inside out, washing out the last of the chemical gas.

“Local security has surrendered. Weaklings. Our own people had to step in. Been working several overtime shifts now -” A flash went off. Jean whirled in its direction and yelled at a young cop, “Hey! No pictures! Delete that!”

The newbie ducked his head, apologised, and fiddled with his phone.

“This shit shows no sign of ending.” When the final vehicle had left the compound, Jean marched to the gate, opened the little box embedded at one of its posts, and jabbed in a passcode. The wrought iron gates rumbled closed.

You trotted after him to a knot of people, which looked like a brewing riot. “I need to know where people are. At least Mikasa, Eren, Connie, and Hange.”

“Haven’t seen them.” He beckoned to a subordinate, who rushed over to the stewing mob, and spared you an exhausted look. “But if you can figure out a way to get all this lot out of here, I’ll be eternally grateful.”

Left without alternatives, you ransacked Marco’s room for his master list of live-in staff, thanking the heavens when you found a printed copy of it in his nightstand drawer. Thus armed, you combed the compound from one end to another, checking up after each name, noting their physical status, fitness to work, and location. Nearly half the names on the list were at the hospital.

As you made your rounds, you stumbled upon a handful of colleagues. Sasha enthusiastically volunteered to man a spur-of-the-moment Embassy soup kitchen, which sequestered a sizable number of the refugees at a time. The rest were queued up under temporary tents, getting travel documents replaced and being notified of the whereabouts of missing friends and family by Connie and his team of caffeine-driven vice-consuls who had madly, recklessly, decided to work through the night.

Eren left to arrange for custody over the bodies. Levi had been caught up in a slew of interviews and meetings in the aftermath of the attack and had not been able to return. The rest of you saw him only on the screens of your phones, extending condolences to the bereaved and promising to release a list of names of the casualties as soon as it was ready.

By eleven o’clock, you were tired, hungry, and sleepless like the rest of the staff on overtime. But there was no chance to pause. You left the grounds, master list just a little battered, to resume your search in the city’s hospitals.

Several of your comrades were dead. The rest were injured, some more severely than the others. All were recommended to stay at least overnight at the emergency room - already filled to bursting - for observation. Just to be sure.

It was past four in the morning when you returned in a cab. Things at the Embassy had calmed down. Sasha’s makeshift relief station had closed for the night. The flashing lights of the emergency response vehicles had been turned off save for the single ambulance parked beside a twenty-four-hour medical tent. Even Connie’s help desk was winding down, the staff taking shifts amongst themselves to tend to the most tenacious of the refugees.

You climbed up to your room in stockings, shoes dangling from one hand, head throbbing. Your phone was dead. You docked it for charging and powered it up as you undressed to shower. Perhaps Levi would need something, and would call.

A slew of notifications instantly lit up your screen. You scrolled through them, dismissing those already addressed, and sorting through those that needed to be answered in the morning. As you penned the tasks in your calendar, a new text message rang in.

 _‘Are you all right? I would have called, but was afraid you were busy.’_ Erwin.

 _‘Yes,’_ you replied, the warmth from earlier in the day - a lifetime ago, it seemed - blooming anew in your chest. 

_‘Have you had a chance to rest at all?’_

_‘Winding down,’_ you admitted, suddenly unbearably tired. Forcing yourself to your feet, you stepped into the shower and tried to savour this single, unhurried moment out of the entire day. If you dropped off instantly, you would have an hour or so of uninterrupted sleep before having to get up to do the same thing all over again. 

A wave of nauseating exhaustion suddenly rose up over you. You managed to slam a steadying hand against the tap as the world tilted, sinking to your knees as spots danced before your eyes. Hot water rained down on you, the rising steam suffocating. Groping blindly, you managed to turn off the water and urged your spasming gut to calm down.

For several frightening minutes you remained still, unwilling to let go of your grip on the faucet, feeling that you would slip into unconsciousness if you did. By and by, the muffling roar in your ears faded, and your vision cleared. As soon as you felt steady enough, you got up, hurried through your shower, and crawled into bed.

Erwin’s reply went unread. _‘Rest well.’_

When your alarm went off a little after six in the morning, you were still queasy and shivery. A dull ache pounded around your middle and your back, but you didn’t have a temperature. Dragging yourself out of bed, you plodded downstairs for an ibuprofen before the morning rush. One of Connie’s saluted as he passed you on the stairs. 

“Right capital guy, that one!” He slurred around the donut clenched between his teeth. “If I were Sinian, I’d vote for him through and through!”

You shuffled through the first floor, which was littered with sunken-eyed vice-consuls in rumpled suits, slumped against walls or draped over couches, all sporting donuts in hand or in mouth. Blearily, you picked your way through them - and ground to a halt at the threshold to the kitchen. The centre island and all the counters were overflowing with stacked donut boxes. And in the middle of it all, pristine in the godawful hour was -

“Erwin.”

“Good morning.” His smile was gentle, and he smiled, it seemed, only for you. “I took the liberty of dropping by with breakfast. Care for some coffee?”

Your chest tightened; eyes prickled, and with it returned the rushing in your ears. You felt hot and cold and lightheaded, every ache amplified as the events of yesterday flashed behind your tunneling vision. 

Relief, distress, agony, and sorrow.

From far away, it seemed, you watched Erwin’s face change from calm to concerned to alarmed. You felt, more than saw, him hurry to you, all solicitation. Felt the rumbling of his voice as he murmured soothing platitudes. 

The world was melting away. You blinked hard, looked up, and through the cotton in your head recognized only the steady blue of his eyes.

Breathe, you thought he said, as blood roared in your ears.

Breathe.

He moved to hold you, and you crumpled in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The request for confirmation of consent to enter embassy premises is a nod to the Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations, Article 22 of which provides that the premises of a diplomatic mission are inviolable and may be entered by agents of the host state only with the consent of the head of mission.
> 
> This chapter was edited using The Comic Sans Hack (https://knowyourmeme.com/editorials/in-the-media/tumblr-discovers-infuriating-defense-for-comic-sans). It works!!


	6. Chapter 6

You came to in darkness punctured with a rhythmic tap-tap-tapping somewhere beyond your feet. The four corners of your room came into focus, faintly lighted by the blue glow of a computer screen.

“Glad to see you up.”

Moaning, you squinted at the dark shape at the foot of your bed. Manly silhouette, cut sharp. You rolled to your side, attempted to sit up, and promptly dry heaved over the edge of your mattress as your stomach cramped with a vengeance. You fumbled for the nearby rubbish bin, dragged it to yourself, and gagged, pain and pressure pounding behind clenched eyelids.

The tap-tap-tapping stopped. Quiet footsteps crossed the room. A warm hand settled between your shoulder blades; smoothed down the rumpled shirt sticking to your sweaty back.

Your throat ached from the fruitless effort, your stomach empty, it seemed, even of bile. You swiped the back of your hand over your mouth, mostly out of reflex, and fell back onto your pillows. 

Levi’s face, grey in the dimness, hovered above you. 

“You’re back,” you managed weakly, and blinked at the larger shadow behind him. The clear-cut, manly shadow of, you now realised, Erwin Smith.

“I’ll kill you if you tell me you’re pregnant.” Levi. How ironic.

You tried to grin jestingly and failed. The hand on your back came up to the side of your neck. He thumbed your clammy skin.

“Just a little banged up from yesterday.” You attempted to inhale, satisfied when your stomach didn’t twist. “Nile was a little...eager.”

“How  _ eager _ was he,” His tone sharpened and you imagined Levi’s eyes narrowing, “that you’re vomiting today?”

“Sufficiently,” you sighed, shaking your head. As long as you kept a hand pressed to your middle, the dull ache was bearable. “I’ll be fine once I’ve had an ibuprofen.”

He rose and, to your astonishment, returned with a whole first aid kit.

“What the hell, Levi?”

“It’s called: being the only responsible adult around here.” He jerked his head in Erwin’s direction. “That big lunk flipped his shit after your epic performance.”

“I was concerned,” Erwin retorted evenly.

Levi tsk’ed. “If that’s what you call screaming in the middle of the kitchen while those half-awake brats ran themselves shitless, sure.” He found a packet of tablets, popped one out, and shoved it against your lips. You made a face at him but obediently opened your mouth and accepted the proffered glass of water. 

You hadn’t realised how thirsty you were.

“Easy,” he warned, tugging the tumbler away.”Don’t want you retching all over the place.”

“I won’t,” you said, just to be petulant, and lay back down with a content sigh, watching Levi repack his ridiculously large first-aid kit. Tension practically beamed out of his jerky motions.

“How’s the Embassy?” you had to ask.

He didn’t answer for the longest time. The ibuprofen was taking effect. Your nausea was gone, and the stabbing pain around your middle was fading. You extended an arm towards him, the tip of a fingernail just catching his sleeved arm. Levi started; jaw knotting as he gritted his teeth.

“Plodding along,” he finally said. And after a pause, “Home office called.”

Your brows knitted. “What for?”

That made him laugh. A short, disbelieving bark. His face slanted towards you. “The Embassy gets gassed and you really thought Home Office wouldn’t call? I’d be concerned if they didn’t.”

You refused to be sidetracked. “Was it Pixis? What did he say?”

The first aid kit clanged shut. “Later.”

You found the strength to rise onto your forearms. “But there’s so much to sort out and it’s my job to know -”

He reached for you, closed a hand over your eyes, blotting out even the dimness, and pushed with enough force to coax you back onto the bed.

“We’ll talk about it later.”

The urge to  _ do something _ ebbed. Only when you relaxed did Levi let go, palm sweeping up your forehead and over your hair. 

“But you’re going back to work -”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Forget it. You’re only useful to me when you’re well-rested.”

You watched him get up, shake out, and slip into the suit jacket hung around the back of your desk chair. He clapped his laptop shut. The solitary light source winked out, plunging your room into black-out darkness.

The mattress at the foot of your bed sank with human weight.

“Staying?” You heard Levi ask, obviously not you. Erwin replied in the affirmative.

“You don’t have to,” you interrupted in protest, shuffling blindly through your sheets. Someone caught your flailing foot; patted it.

“Don’t be a brat. Go to sleep.”

The patting turned into a little squeeze. Erwin rumbled, “It’s fine. Just rest.”

“Hands to yourself, Smith.” A reminder. Sharp; more like a warning.

Amused. Miffed. “Of course, Levi.”

He raised his voice, words practically soaring to you. “And you. No funny business.”

You dug your face into your pillow and had to roll your eyes. “Yes, dad.”

He made an irritated noise. Your door creaked open, admitted a shaft of light, and clicked shut. Darkness again. Erwin shuffled. A weight lifted from your bed. The wheels of your desk chair skudded over the floor.

“Erwin?” Whispered uncertainty.

“Yes, love?” He was at your desk, motionless. You felt his presence, large and warm and comforting, and curled onto your side, suffused with the sensation of his being.

“Nothing.” You sighed, heart full and content, and drifted into dreamless sleep. 

\---

Four years ago, Grisha Jaeger left his post as King Rod Reiss’ man Friday to seek his fortune in Sinian-Marian trade. When he did, tariffs were scrapped, import quotas removed, and excessively free trade flowed between the two territories.

Two years ago, Grisha Jaeger was hailed as Sina’s wealthiest man. After having amassed a fortune in trading, he moved on to acquisitions, and was rumoured to have interests in every enterprise in Sina.

Two years was enough time for most anyone to forget that Grisha Jaeger was of Marian birth and citizenship. But among those who remembered, rumours were rife that Grisha filled Maria’s royal coffers as quickly as Rod emptied it.

Two years ago, Christa Lenz was an unremarkable college girl on a tenuous scholarship working part-time at her campus’ cafe. Dot Pixis was the Dean of the Marian Diplomatic Corps facing imminent retirement.

Two years ago, several things heralded the downfall of Rod Reiss:

First, His Majesty failed to exploit Sina as thoroughly as he could - and should - have, contenting himself with making a cash cow of his neighbouring republic instead of exerting a stronger influence over it for the sake of geopolitics.

Second, Grisha Jaeger’s influence rose much too quickly in Sina - quicker and stronger than even his royal patron. With it, Grisha’s head grew much too large with inflated ambition.

Third, Dot Pixis, who was then stationed at the Marian Embassy in Sina and who had the Ackerman prodigy under his tutelage, considered it an insult to retire with Sina nipping at the heels of his beloved Maria on the behest of an ex-royal valet.

And fourth, Dot Pixis was not prepared to retire into anonymity. He adamantly refused to let his half century diplomatic career, and the name he had made for himself, fade into a footnote in the annals of Marian history.

So on a midsummer day two years ago, at the Reiss summer palace of all places, the royal yacht capsized in the middle of Lake Paradis. As the area formed part of the jealously guarded royal estate, no one was any the wiser that King Rod and all his family sank with their vessel while the crew watched from their lifeboat and the attendants went about their business, unmindful of the royal cries for help.

It was only upon the certainty of the death of the King, the Queen, and all their legitimate children, that the staff wailed in panic and scrambled in pretended haste to rescue their monarch.

By then, Dot Pixis had left the scene.

Later that afternoon, he accosted Christa Lenz near the end of her shift to offer to her the throne of Maria as Queen Historia Reiss.

Since then, Christa Lenz’s reign was guided by a single truth: that a bastard queen could not cull legitimacy from her Reiss blood. If she wanted to hold on to her position, she had to be accepted by the people as a new ruler, and had, at all times, to maintain popular support.

Which was why, when the news and that horrible video began circulating, she personally phoned Levi Ackerman to order that he arrange for it to be taken down. She did not count on the young diplomat to be a stubborn pain in the ass (as Dot would later laughingly - and crudely, she might add - confirm).

Levi was so nonplussed by the whole thing that he answered his Queen’s call in front of Erwin, who did nothing to hide his interest.

“Do you not understand the light in which that video places Maria?” Historia demanded into the receiver, frustrated with Levi’s eternal unconcern.

“I do, Your Majesty.” His collected calmness was infuriating. If she hadn’t heard so much praise for him in the diplomatic circles, Historia would have long fired this impertinent chit. “I understand that the video casts Maria as a victim, and the Titans as barbaric, sub-human aggressors.”

“That’s not what I meant, Mr. Ackerman,” she hissed. “It makes us look weak. Have it taken down.”

Settling back against his seat - your borrowed desk chair - Levi flickered a glance at Erwin, and then at you, just a lump under the blankets. “I think Your Majesty means: it paints your reign as weak and contemptible.”

Erwin looked sharply up at him. Historia was silenced.

“You are afraid your ratings will dip,” Levi went on, “even though you are certain Maria’s image will survive.”

“How dare you -”

He sighed, sounding famously bored. “This...video...as it is, is a boon to Maria. Should any real threat arise, we will be certain to apprise Your Majesty. If anything of particular significance develops, we will call again.” 

Erwin thought back to that exchange now; remembered how, when you so much as twitched, Levi hung up on his queen to check on you.

“You’re impossible,” Erwin had said to him. “I won’t be surprised if Historia has you recalled from service.”

The other snorted in reply; hitched up your blankets and tucked them around you.

“She cried after Nile yesterday. Why do you put her through this?”

“Says the man who wouldn’t refuse a night with her.”

Erwin sighed through his nose now, slouched in your desk chair. Through the dark, he thought he could make out the miniscule rise and fall of your sleepy breaths. 

He supposed Levi was right. But he would make amends. He had been planning to. Someday, you won’t have to exchange your body, your peace, for anything anymore. He would make sure of it.

\---

A brief appearance was the bare minimum. She’d have to face the public for the sake of the dead. Make a few speeches, promise fire and brimstone upon the Titans.

The mere thought of it sapped her.

She’d shut off the droning television. It was a habit of Pixis; one that he insisted on foisting upon her. She had to keep abreast of happenings, he said, and Historia privately thought he was being ridiculous. People phoned her about crises well before they reached the news outlets.

With the television silenced, Historia realised for the first time since arriving at the Reiss Royal Palace, that she could hear birdsong in the Queen’s Drawing Room; that the chirping filtered in with the sunlight shining onto the twin oil paintings hanging side-by-side above the mantel.

The Reiss Royal Family, from which she was conspicuously absent, and her own lonesome portrait. 

It was on such a day - mild, unassuming - that a black-haired woman and a man introduced as Dot Pixis arrived at her campus coffee shop. 

Historia remembered the way the welcome greeting died on Christa Lenz’s lips, remembered the itchy dampness of the rag in her hand (she was wiping the counter), the odour of coffee that suddenly turned oppressive, and the deafening din the white noise of conversation had become.

“Finishing your shift?” the black-haired woman had asked, all casual. Christa Lenz dumbly nodded, wondering why anyone would bother paying special attention to the staff shift schedules.

The woman’s face softened. She smiled at Christa, flashing a pair of pointed canines. Vampire-like. She walked with a fatal grace that, were it at any other time, any other place, would have made Christa’s little virgin heart skip a beat. 

The rag snaked from her hand to the woman’s. Time seemed interminable, though just outside the poor girl’s stream of consciousness, she knew that nobody in the shop was paying any special attention to them. All their patrons were students. All busy, all hunched over their respective laptops.

“Any quiet place to talk?” Words  _ purred _ out of the woman’s smirking mouth. Christa found herself staring. “Privately?”

Yes. The staff room was empty. She was the only one on shift.

“Perfect.” That fanged grin again, wider this time. The woman indicated the old man accompanying her. “The Dean would like to have a few words. I’ll man the counters and have your coffee right up. Iced caramel macchiato, wasn’t it? Extra whipped cream?”

Christa lost her presence of mind.

As it turned out, the man was not the dean of her college come down for a chat. Nor was he the dean of any college. He was the Honourable Dot Pixis, Dean of the Diplomatic Corps of the Kingdom of Maria. 

Christa did not know what in heaven’s name a diplomatic corps was, much less that it had a dean.

At any rate, as Dot Pixis indulgently told her, he had come to see her about a most serious business. King Rod and the whole of his legitimate family had just perished in a summertime boating accident - no, no, say nothing. It had not yet been officially announced - and he was on the search for a new monarch.

Christa wasn’t sure what it had to do with her.

“Everything,” Dot has assured her. It had everything to do with her, especially since she was the last remaining member of the Reiss family.

Christa gaped at him. She thought he said King Rod and the whole royal family died?

“Yes,” Pixis said, folding his hands atop his crossed legs. “His  _ legitimate  _ family.” And he went on about her true identity as Historia Reiss, the secret bastard daughter of the late King Rod Reiss, and how, now that she knew, she was obliged to ascend the Marian throne.

The black-haired woman chose that moment to appear with two cups of coffee. Christa whipped towards her, wide-eyed, silently pleading for a ray of sanity.

“He’s serious,” the woman confirmed, inclining her head at the back of Dot Pixis’ sober, bald pate. “I’m Ymir Fritz, Commander of the Royal Guard. At your service.”

Christa ran out of that madhouse.

She sighed to think about it now. Since then, she’d become Queen Historia and learned all she could from Dot Pixis about her new role. On the eve of her coronation, the question regarding the appointment of the First Royal Secretary having more or less been impliedly resolved, the hastily-named Princess Historia Reiss lingered at the periphery of her throne room and declared,

“Dot, I refuse to be a puppet.”

“Of course,” the Honourable Dot Pixis, now retired, murmured.

“There’s plenty I don’t know. Teach me, but do not attempt to rule through me.”

“Certainly not.”

“My appearance, and now my coronation, has sparked doubt and criticism all over Maria. I need people who are loyal to me.” She squared her shoulders; imagined the cadence of her voice soaring up into the ancient vaulted ceiling. “Tell me, Dot: are you ready to bind your fate to mine?”

The answer needed no long consideration. “No, Majesty.”

Historia whirled, more panic than rage in her young eyes.

“My loyalty lies with Maria. It always has, and it always will.”

For the most part, Dot Pixis kept true to his word. Historia had to admit that this sometimes caused her worry, especially when she recalled the gleam in his eyes that night, or the peculiar set of his expression that made her suspect, and rightly so, that Dot Pixis’ loyalty to Maria came at the cost of royal lives.

Historia whirled away from the twin portraits. This whole mess with the Titans was only the tip of the iceberg. If she lost popular support, who was to say she wouldn’t lose Dot Pixis’ too?

\---

As Levi predicted, the spate of violence rallied public sentiment in favour of Maria. Reactionary Sinian youth, mostly of voting age, took to the streets amidst a sharply divided Parliament.

“You idiot!” Nothing softened the rage in Grisha Jaeger’s voice. “We had an apathetic population and a bitter Parliament and you had to throw that all away!”

Nick flushed hot with desperation. “You said violence!” he just about shouted back, voice cracking and growing shrill. “An attack on the embassy was best! Destroys morale, offices, and documents, and keeps them too busy to lobby for aid!” His heaving breaths carried through the phone lines. “First and second votes were scheduled only a week apart. With the embassy down at the beginning of  _ this week _ , those children will have their hands full tallying their dead and digging through the ruins until Friday!”

“And yet,” Grisha put in, “Levi’s team continues to hound Parliament.”

Pastor Nick laughed, a hollow, airy sound barked from the base of his throat. “Impossible! Levi is busy looking for a landlord who’ll let him move in his gaggle of rubbish. On a budget no less!”

But Nick’s benefactor was not impressed, if his painstakingly enunciated syllables were any indication. “On the contrary, Levi’s harlot has managed to bed both Majority and Minority Party leaders.”

“What!” Shrieked.

Grisha’s lip curled. “You’re in a delicate position, Pastor. If I were you, I’d start picking up after myself.”

\---

The next time you woke, your curtains were drawn and the sky beyond was the low, gathering indigo of incoming sunset. You called Erwin’s name in half-wakefulness. It was Levi who swivelled from his seat at your desk, still working by the light of his computer screen.

“Erwin left?” you mumbled, untangling yourself from the sheets and slipping off the bed. Levi had risen, and was appraising you with arms crossed over his chest.

“He had to. Couldn’t possibly lounge here while you slept the day away.”

“Sorry.” You winced; scrubbed at your face, all sense of time gone. “I’m ready to get back to work. I can take over the night shift,” you offered, remembering the confusion from last night.

“Forget it. I need you for something else.”

Bits and pieces from earlier in the day condensed in your memory, and you suddenly remembered. “Home Office.” Levi allowed himself a tiny nod. “You were going to tell me why Dot Pixis called.”

“Dot didn’t call.” He beckoned you to the desk and sat you down in front of his laptop. The screensaver had gone on. He leaned over you, arms brushing over your shoulders, to type in his password.

“But I thought Home Office -” You twisted round, both your heads at that proximity where you needed only to reach up to kiss along his jaw. Levi glanced at you down the bridge of his nose.

“Historia called.” 

The screen saver gave way to his desktop, all cluttered with myriad little windows.

“ _ The Queen _ called?” you gasped, wondering how Levi could casually file this sort of event under the Something-To-Talk-About-Later stack, and aghast over the familiarity with which he tossed around  _ the Queen of Maria _ ’s name.

He shot you a look like you had suggested worshipping a captive beetle. “What. She’s human and shits like everybody else.”

“God, no…”

Clicking his tongue impatiently, he grabbed your chin and swivelled your face towards the screen, where he had pulled up a video file. He was still leaning over you, so close you could feel his arm when you leaned back; could smell the last traces of smoke on his breath. 

Levi was an occasional smoker. At the beginning of his career, the occasion was usually a feverish bout of rebellious feeling. As he rose through the ranks, he dropped back to smoking only under the duress of extraordinary stress.

You decided not to comment on it.

“Historia was upset over this video.” He hit  _ play _ .

Instantly, you recoiled. Levi had you by the shoulders, rooting you to your seat, his tobacco-laced breath blowing against your cheek.

“Watch.”

_ Two men were laughing, each flicking a switchblade while they talked. Their faces were obscured by dark masks, their eyes carefully pixelated. Nothing else was censored. Not Marco, half-conscious, slumped over a familiar conference table. Not his bloody nose and battered face. _

_ The men’s conversation sounded tinny through the laptop’s speakers. One of them tapped the flat of his knife against Marco’s purple cheek. They stood on either side of him, surrounding him. _

_ “Who’s this one again?” _

_ “Embassy Manager.” Marco’s I.D. clattered onto the table, sling flowing like a liquid tail behind it. A moan of pain rumbled from his throat.  _

_ “The fuck’s that?” the first speaker boomed, his hand sinking into Marco’s hair and gripping hard. “You don’t say we got the fucking  _ butler _?” _

_ “He’s not the butler,” the other retorted. Gesturing at the camera, “Get on with it.” _

_ His partner lifted Marco’s head by the hair and peered into his face. “Thought we were gonna be doin’ in a lady,” He whined. “Sure would have been more exciting than this cock-sucker. Then again,” he shrugged, “it’s a pity to destroy a pretty face.” _

Your breath caught in your throat. Levi’s hold on you tightened, as if he felt the coiling in your muscles.

_ The camera picked up muffled shouting and thumping in the background. The first assailant dropped Marco’s head - it bounced on the table with a gutting  _ thud _ \- to swivel in the direction of the sound.  _

_ “They’re on to us!” His partner urged. “Go!” _

_ “But he’s not important!” Marco’s head was being thrust about like a limp rag doll, blood dripping in arches according to the direction of the motions. “I don’t wanna waste effort -” _

_ The banging grew louder.  _

You watched, wide-eyed, in the back of your mind seeing Mike behind the conference room doors, beating at it, screaming for them to  _ open the fuck up! _

_ “For god’s sake!” The owner of the agitated voice wrenched Marco’s head towards himself and raised it to face the camera. His knife flashed, sank into pulpy, battered skin, then carved upwards, flaying flesh, snapping tendons and unhinging joints to Marco’s frantic, half-conscious, gurgling screams. _

_ “Hey, I want a go, too!” _

You were frozen in place, body flushed with adrenaline but unable to do more than clutch at the edges of your seat. Your mind dove into the picture, seeing nothing but the raw brutality, feeling nothing but Marco’s dying anguish. Something deep inside hammered to be let out -

_ Over and over. Clean strokes, one after another. He was still alive as they stabbed his face to ribbons. Blood flowed onto the table. His eyes rolled up in the excruciating pain. One eyeball popped out of its socket. Finally, with a juicy rip, his jaw slacked unnaturally open. _

\- it took hold of your heart with icy tentacles and squeezed, drawing out breath and life, churning your consciousness into blood-red turbulence.

_ Marco’s final protests faded into the whistling of air escaping deflated lungs. _

_ “Shut him up.” _

No, no, no.

_ The blade buried itself under his loose jaw, and in one smooth motion, as if even the dying man’s flesh had surrendered to the ignominy, slit across his throat. There was a sound like a wet smack. Blood sprayed across the camera. _

You screamed. Levi clawed into your shoulders.

“Watch,” he ordered, because the video was still running, and the murderers were still talking. But your hands had already flown to your face. You were shuddering, every fiber of your being trying to wrench free of his grasp. 

_ “If this doesn’t get Her Majesty’s attention, nothing will.” _

_ “That bitch’s too young to be Queen. Imagines she can overhaul Maria. This’ll show her.” _

_ “Thinks she can continue ignoring us, does she? We’ll teach her how to run this joint -” _

“That’s gone viral.” The voice at your ear remained steady; even and composed as it dragged you from your hysteria. “It’s all over Maria and Sina. It’s everywhere and everyone’s been trying to take it down, but the goddamn thing just keeps reappearing.”

He spoke clinically. Strategically. Every word charging through the horror to reach into the  _ usefulness _ of it all. 

Your mind responded in kind. Slowly, you unfurled. Hands dropped away in time for you to see the ending: camera lens being scrubbed with a rag, blood smearing instead all over it, the picture shaking, blackening, and then winking into nothingness.

The  _ play _ button sat primly in the middle of the screen.

“Did you hear what they said?”

Your chest was still heaving. You weren’t sure what he meant.

“They didn’t really want Marco,” he lilted. “They wanted to do that to  _ you. _ ” A pause to let that sink in. “What are you going to do about it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Levi in my mind will always be tough love and understated devotion. And the kind of neat freak whose computer is overrun with windows all the time.
> 
> The Erwin in my mind will always be built like Cary Grant in his late 1930s movies, debonair, with soft terms of endearment and a tendency to spoil.
> 
> Levi's comeback re Historia is a cap off to my boss. Every time he notices me getting intimidated by someone, he always says, "They're just people. They shit like everybody else." He's a great man.


	7. Chapter 7

You have to be worth more than the trouble you cause,  _ you were once told. _

_ That was in university, a lifetime ago. A spring-summer night in Levi’s apartment. He was crouched on his bathroom floor and you were grinning at him as he dabbed antiseptic on your cheek.  _

_ He said it by way of advice for avoiding trouble. Avoiding getting too deep in trouble. Levi was post-grad, wise, and a teacher’s assistant who was more frightening than the teacher himself. You never had the misfortune of being in any of his classes, but met him instead through mutual friends at a fraternity party of all things. _

_ A fraternity party, come to think of it, much like this latest one where you earned two bloody stripes down the left side of your face. _

_ “Not yet learned your lesson, have you, brat?” he chastised in his unchanging monotone. “Otherwise, you’d at least have the decency to look a little more contrite.” _

_ You laughed. “But Levi, it’s part of the game. It was a free-for-all.” _

_ He hurled the used cotton bud in the wastebasket, brow clouding with frustration. “It was not a goddamn free-for-all! That bastard had a girlfriend, and she flew at you with the full intention of scratching your bloody blind eyes out!” _

_ “Everyone thought it was such great fun,” you muttered, unrepentant. _

_ “You don’t see me fucking laughing, do you?” He began attacking a strip of bandages. You were itching to make a sassy retort, but at the last minute decided to hold your tongue. Levi grumbled. “What the hell were you thinking?” _

_ “I just wanted to know. It was an experiment,” you said, obeying the gentle knuckles that tilted your jaw so Levi could paste the bandage over your wounds.  _

_ “A lap dance is an experiment.” He did not sound impressed. Re-balancing from a crouch to a kneel, he slammed both hands onto the edge of the bathtub on either side of you. Exasperated silver drilled into you. “In what shitty planet is a lap dance for a fraternity president with a vicious girlfriend considered an experiment?” _

_ “I didn’t know -” _

_ He tutted. _

_ “ _ Fine. _ I knew he had a girlfriend. I knew girlfriends can be batshit crazy.” You picked at the cuffs of your sweater. “I wanted to do it anyway.” _

_ He waited for you to go on. _

_ “I wanted to see...if I could be...like her. As desirable...as his pretty girlfriend,” you finally confessed, glaring at your lap. “And now I…” You faltered as the thought suddenly struck you. In the chaos that followed your little show, it didn’t even occur to you to wonder what your intended target thought of it all. _

_ God. What an idiot you were. A complete, absolute, bumbling idiot. _

_ “Anyone ever tell you men are simple creatures? Any old ass in their face is good enough. Their monstrous ego is easily soothed by any hint of attention.” _

_ Well now you felt doubly stupid. Frustrated, embarrassed tears welled up in your eyes. _

_ “What are you crying about?” Annoyed. At a loss. _

_ “Fucking dumb. That’s what I am,” you sniffed, angry at yourself. “I thought finally -” you hiccuped, and with it the rest of what you wanted to say vanished. You shook your head, Levi’s haphazard ponytail swishing across your back. “Beautiful people like you won’t understand.” _

_ Levi’s eyes narrowed. Not that you would see. But you noticed the tension leaving the forearms caging you. “Say it clearly.” _

_ You sucked in shuddering air, “I’ve always envied the pretty girls.” What tendrils of hair that escaped your ponytail fluttered with your words. “I wanted to know what it felt to be like them. To walk down the street and turn heads. To have everyone fall all over themselves to please you. I wanted - I  _ still want  _ to know what it’s like to strike up conversation with a stranger and know that he wants to keep talking. To see beautiful people and not have to look down or away because you’re finally, finally in their league and can look them straight in the eye…” _

_ You trailed off, defeated. There would be none of that now. Beautiful people didn’t have unbeautiful moments. They didn’t snivel in their friends’ bathrooms, snot and tears running down their chins, their hair a nest of knots. _

_ Levi’s hands inched towards you. When he spoke again, he sounded more forgiving. “And who,” he said, “was the idiot who told you otherwise?” _

_ Your head snapped up. His face was set grimly. Your mouth opened and shut, dying halfway to an unformed protest. _

_ “Contrary to what you might think,” and the hands beside your thighs settled on them, gripping hard. Like a reproach. Like a painful wakeup call. “You are beautiful. You just insist on shrivelling under that moth-eaten hoodie all the damn time. You  _ do  _ turn heads when you walk down the street. That rat who sits behind you in Political Theory couldn’t take his eyes off your ass when you stood to hand in your blue book yesterday -” _

_ “But you’re not in my classes! How do you -” _

_ “That frat president?” His hold was pinching, even through your jeans. You had never felt more awake. “One more second and he would have begun dry humping you. The hell do you think his girlfriend was so angry for?” _

_ Your mouth fell open. Levi flicked your forehead. _

_ “Listen, you little shit. If you’re going to be experimenting with your sex appeal, you might as well get something out of it. Add to your value. Be worth plenty. When you’re worth more than the trouble you cause, you get to stay out of trouble.” He fixed you with what was possibly the most serious look he’d ever given anyone. “Do you hear me?  _ You are worth far too much to let any old preppy brat grab your ass for free. _ ” _

_ You nodded, understanding a little too much; taking Levi’s advice a little too deeply, a smidge too closely to the heart.  _

_ That was probably how all of this began. _

_ Levi became your life’s constant, and nearly a year into your diplomatic career morphed into the admirable upperclassman who took it upon himself to school you out of what he deemed deplorable social graces left over from your university years. _

_ “Lie a little bit,” he’d scoffed at you after a round table meeting. “You couldn’t have been more obvious if you’d carved your stomach open and laid your guts on the table for all to see.” Then he’d rolled his eyes and strolled away, leaving you to make sense of his graphic metaphors. _

_ You learned plenty from him and of him. You found out that your Levi from university was the then-Ambassador Pixis’ favourite, that he was  _ The _ Ackerman of his clan of diplomats, the one who earned the highest credits in the history of Marian foreign service exams, and the youngest person to be promoted First Secretary, head of the elite Political Research and Policy Division.  _

_ Then one day you accidentally walked in on him smoking a joint in his office right before a meeting with the Sinian Parliament’s Economic Committee. _

_ You teased him, ribbing about how he wasn’t as good a boy as everybody made him out to be, huh? He calmly told you to shut up, offered you his hand-rolled smoke, and said you’d make a great accomplice. A couple of deep drags later, you were freeing his cock from his dress pants and spreading your legs on the edge of his desk.  _

_ Becoming better friends was inevitable after that, and you walked out of Levi’s office with a new awareness of the persuasive power of lust. _

_ One month later, you let a mousy little clerk cum in your mouth in exchange for an inch-thick transcript of the executive sessions on trade. While the poor man slumped in his seat, thoroughly sated, flaccid penis hanging wetly out of his trousers, you stuffed the onion-skin pages down the front of your shirt, buttoned up your blazer, and left with nothing more than a polite thank you. _

_ It was only later, while you watched Levi skim the pages, that the first hint of nerves trembled through you. You pressed your lips together and tried not to fidget. He noticed anyway, gaze moving over the top of the stapled sheets. _

_ “Sit.” _

_ You sat. He flicked the page and scanned the next one, unlined face smooth with satisfaction. “If you’re going to go about it like that, you have to work on not looking like a hunted rabbit.” _

_ You were terrified of being found out and told him as much. _

_ He snorted. “Of course you’ll be found out. Those perverts at Parliament will hear of it. You’ll know because your phone will start ringing off the hook.” _

_ “The Embassy’s reputation -” _

_ He waved your worry away and briefly you thought that maybe you should have thought of that before embarking on  _ this _. “You’re not the first in the long, dirty history of diplomacy to make a currency of sex. Besides, those old fucks will be watching their names, too.” _

_ Your chest unclenched. Levi took his time reading, so that when he finally shut the flimsy volume with a soft, “Good work,” you had mustered the courage to cheekily say, _

_ “I’m surprised you’re not demanding anything in exchange for your silence.” _

_ He shot you a withering look. _

_ Two favours and a right old fuck with a Presidential Secretary later, you were crawling back to Levi, thoroughly shattered. He dragged you to the archives and in a blind spot away from the security cameras, ordered you to stop crying. _

_ “I feel so dirty,” you blubbered, tears streaming messily down your face, so busy sobbing you didn’t notice that Levi was already unzipping your skirt and tugging it free. _

_ “It’s just sex.” His whisper was harsh against your ear, and low as if there was any chance of being overheard. “For whatever reason you do it,  _ it’s only sex _. If it incidentally gets you what you want, that’s a bonus.” _

_ His straying hand, hot and harsh, found your cunt, touching urgently, slipping in and pumping until you cried out and came all over his fingers. While you simmered in post-climax weakness, he propped you against the wall. You were consumed by the smell of musty old paper, and grounded only by the fullness between your thighs. _

_ “Come to me when you feel bad, and I’ll remind you what this is - just a game played on human desires. You only have to win. Whatever you do to get there is simply strategy.” As he spoke, he moved inside you with slow, soothing, almost caressing motions. “So come to me when you feel dirty; when you feel wronged. I’ll make it right.” _

_ He touched you like a lover, showering you with all the tenderness in the world, rutting against you until your sobs quieted and your head fell against his shoulder.  _

_ He made strange love to you, whispering reassurances, kissing your hair and stroking your hips until you moaned into his neck and, hands fisted in his hair, spasmed into orgasm. You threw your head back. His mouth latched onto your flushed neck, spilling panting praise, sucking as he thrust urgently until finally, with an expletive, he ejaculated inside you. _

_ “It’s only sex,” was his rallying slogan. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.” _

_ He withdrew, and everything that had become normal spiralled out of your hands. _

\---

It rained on repatriation day. Buffeted by the stabbing downpour, the Marian flag fluttered wetly from its perch on the hood of your diplomatic car. A small team of motorcycle-mounted national guards escorted your morbid convoy.

From out of the backseat windows, you could see the logo of the city coroner’s vans, and behind them, the looming mugs of container vehicles looped with black and white ribbons, brimming with coffins. Through the slip-sliding raindrops, you could make out here and there the vivid face of a demonstrator, now with hair plastered to face, now in slickers and boots, now rallying for relief for sister Maria.

Silver eyes took it all in without a word. Watched it all without the barest twitch of the face.

You didn’t worry. By the time you pulled up to the airport, Levi would have put on his working persona. He would have already squared his shoulders, head high and dignified, ready to receive rehearsed sympathies.

The crowd thickened the closer you drew to your destination. Your driver’s gaze flickered to catch yours in the rearview mirror. Transparent wire coiled from the receiver in his ear to disappear underneath his collar.

“They’re keeping up the rear.”

You swivelled in your seat even though all you could really see was the stark face of the first of many vans in your meandering procession.

“Who are?”

“The demonstrators.” Eyes again on the road. Work some time at an Embassy and one begins to pick up the significance of every little thing. “I’m told they’ve started marching behind the last van. This is becoming a right proper funereal send off.”

You and Levi exchanged glances. If a mere driver could recognize the significance of this spontaneous show of support, then it was not an opportunity to be wasted. 

You were already dialling Jean. He picked up at once, tone coloured by vindicated glee. “Yo! You’ll love this. The blokes along your route -”

“Are seeing us to the airport,” you finished. “We see them. I need to know the situation there.”

Jean paused for a second. You heard a couple of clicks and then, “Subdued. Mild. Placards and banners are all down with the rain, but there are flowers. Overall, civilized.”

“The bigwigs start arriving yet?” Levi was watching you with interest. You nodded an affirmative to him as Jean replied, 

“Some members of Parliament.”

Just in time. “Thanks, Jean!”

“Any time, little lady!”

You dialled Mikasa next. She was two steps ahead of you, reporting, “The news channels have caught wind of it. Their live broadcast has begun streaming aerial shots of the demonstrators.”

“How many are there?” you pressed.

Mikasa seemed to smile through the lines. “Enough for dramatics.”

You gave Levi a thumbs-up sign. To Mikasa, “Put it on the internet. On all platforms of social media. Feelings are lukewarm at the airport. Let’s get them sympathising.”

“On it.”

Around the airport, smatterings of news teams had begun to appear. You stared out at them, odd excitement tingling the tips of your limbs.

To Levi, “You asked me what I’m going to do about it.” 

Staring at this mob, all raising up the same battlecry, made you feel invincible. Made you feel as if you could not lose; not with the whole world on your side. 

“I’m going to beat them to it.”

_ Beat them, before they can kill me. _

\---

Roaring cheers greeted your arrival. For reasons unknown to airport security, the fading, rain-soaked crowd suddenly came to life, waving flowers and flags while chanting support for Maria. Sinian officials known for openly backing the proposed Anti-Titan Aid Bill were welcomed with hoots, while their less cooperative counterparts were booed at the curb.

Demonstrators pelted your car with flowers as it pulled up to the airport arrivals. You and Levi stepped out in matching black, Levi nodding, bowing thank you’s to the clamoring crowd as the parade of hearses rolled onwards to the airport runway, surrounded on all sides by marching, singing, shouting people.

Erwin found you first. With the watchful eyes of selected press representatives ranged all around, he shook Levi’s hand, nodded to you, and offered his condolences. Nile Dawk and his entourage, along with a handful of officials, approached your trio.

Your group hesitated at the exit. Beyond the eaves of the departures building, rain slanted in piercing needles. Amongst themselves, the surrounding press talked of delays due to the rain, while aides exchanged looks and whispered frantically for umbrellas.

Levi stepped into the downpour. Loyally, you walked beside him, the pair of you instantly drenched as you made your way across the tarmac. 

Baffled, uncoordinated, the military band decided they might as well herald the beginning of the proceedings, and spilled out of their shelter with a long, low trumpet call. Following it, the first of the caskets were wheeled out in rows before the hold of the cargo plane. 

The crowd outside watched through a live-link display, the billow of their voices carrying through the rain. 

You had to suppress a smile.

Behind you, Erwin and a few of the higher-minded members of Parliament had broken away to join you and Levi to the red-cordoned space behind the ranks of the dead. Faced with either embarrassment or drenched discomfort, the rest of the M.P.s and their mumbling aides reluctantly chose to shuffle into the downpour.

Proceedings were abbreviated for as long as was seemly. The Presidential spokesperson offered condolences anew to the Kingdom of Maria, punctuating his words with a hasty parade of floral offerings that Levi received in behalf of the deceaseds' families.

While this was going on, Reiner Braun’s brows knitted. He listened to his earpiece and a moment later whispered to the Prime Minister. Nile looked displeased and frowned at your back.

The gathering erupted in relieved applause as the Presidential Spokesperson stepped down from the makeshift platform, to make way for the Prime Minister.

Still bristling, Nile Dawk took the stand. The stare he levelled at you as he passed was nowhere near benevolent. You gazed innocently back. Nile didn’t have to be happy about anything - neither the weather, nor the passion of the crowd, nor the fact that he was letting himself be whipped about by the rain for the sake of saving face. Nile needed only to show that he had been bent by what appeared to be the overwhelming public sentiment. He needed only to echo their support of Maria.

“Parliament, with the Sinian people, extend to the victims, their friends, families, and loved ones, heartfelt sympathy and condolences.” For someone who loathed the words spilling from his mouth, Nile Dawk looked remarkably compassionate. “Today we send them home - our Marian brothers and sisters whose lives were wasted by the Titans’ senseless violence…”

The anticipation in your chest unclenched.

“...We lived together, and now we suffer together. Sina feels as deeply the loss of Marian lives, and denounces the violence that caused it.”

You could have cheered. He caught your look, paused, and narrowed his eyes. Anyone minutely familiar with the Prime Minister’s expressions would have instantly known that he struggled to proceed. 

At last Nile swallowed, his next words seemed directed to you. “Sina stands with Maria in her struggle for life, and supports her cause against the Titans, whose acts of terror have lain waste to peace, and whose destructive violence has shaken up lawful society.”

Levi nodded graciously. Nile practically choked with fury.

“For Maria,” he pushed on, “with the deepest sadness, and the most - sincere - wishes for peace.”

Thunderous applause met his words. A series of bouquets to match the President’s streamed out and onto the coffins, which were then loaded into the plane’s hold. 

The VIPs were growing restless. The rain was coming down stronger than ever. Several of them hid flinches as icy precipitation soaked through coats and threatened to drown shoes. Behind you, someone whispered, “Well played.”

When all but one of the coffins had been loaded, the military band struck up the Marian anthem. Heads turned and shutters clicked as the final casket was slowly rolled down the assembly.

Marco’s.

Levi met it, and laid a hand on the polished cherry wood. You handed him the Marian flag folded in your hands, and as the music swelled to a crescendo, he unfurled it. Cradled by twin green and white wings, Maria’s emblem flapped briefly in the wind before the driving rain nailed it onto the gleaming wood. Levi secured the flag, stepped back, and saluted.

And so attended by the final strains of the song of his homeland, Marco’s coffin was heaved into the hold. Levi ascended the steps and disappeared into the plane, the victims’ eminent escort home.

A marshall waved the lot of you back towards the airport building, where you finally sheltered under dripping black umbrellas. The jet taxied, picked up speed and took off, nose pointed towards Trost. In its wake, mutilated white bouquets, still pinned to their sashes of black satin, fluttered down onto the runway. 

Airport workers immediately swooped it up. To the rubbish they would go.

Heaving a collective sigh, the sodden VIPs and their equally saturated umbrella bearers ambled into the dry warmth of the departures lounge. 

“You must be pleased with yourself,” came a voice just behind you. A body crowded against you; a paw fumbled at the folds of your velvet coat dress, found your ass, and groped. “I’ll be collecting for that soon. Second reading. An hour before Session opens. My office. Be there.”

Black suits streamed past, concerned only with getting to their cars and drying off. With a final pat, Nile Dawk brushed past you, Reiner at his heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Executive Session - private meeting
> 
> Guess it's all Levi's fault, huh?
> 
> I remember now that I started writing this intending to explore themes of self image. Like the Reader, I would look at beautiful people and wonder what it's like to be them. On days when I wasn't dressed up (or even when dressed up but had to face a particularly striking specimen of the human race), I would look away from people I thought were physically superior. So I wondered what it would be like to be so beautiful you could look other beautiful people right in the eyes and not feel inadequate. And then it seemed a wonderful irony to write a self-deprecating heroine who covers up her insecurities by playing the part of a femme fatale.
> 
> But I'm rambling.
> 
> On another note, I never thought I'd write something that required me to look up synonyms for "coffin". Sorry. Especially Marco.
> 
> This is the earliest I've posted! Maybe I can get to bed at a reasonable hour tonight!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How to catch a Bertholdt.
> 
> Pure smut. Almost.

Bertholdt Hoover, Parliament’s Boy-Next-Door. 

He often rolled his eyes at the moniker. In the eyes of many, perhaps it was true and he really was no more than a boy to them. Youngest member of Parliament with no spectacular history to show for it. 

Bertholdt was painfully - almost self-consciously - aware that he was where he was only on the good graces of Nile Dawk, and was expected to earn his keep. He was there to be Minority’s extra, obedient vote and, these days, Pastor Nick’s go-between to Nile. 

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” the militant priest now tittered static through his ear. 

Bertholdt greeted him coolly. Nick was fully aware that access to their personal numbers was not an invitation to call at any time of day or night. He especially knew not to call during business hours, and especially not just before a session.

It was half an hour to session now. Bertholdt was pacing in his office, paranoid that someone would walk in and find him out.

“You know not to call at this time,” he hissed into the phone. 

“I wouldn’t have, but it’s important,” Nick insisted, sounding aggrieved, “and Nile wouldn’t pick up. It concerns him, you know. Concerns him and the Second Vote. It’s today, isn’t it?”

Bertholdt’s jaws clenched. “If you need Nile, you should have called him earlier. Yesterday, for instance. I have no time for this -”

“Hoover.” The pastor’s voice stilled him. Bertholdt held off from hanging up long enough for Nick to continue, this time in lower, more ominous tones. “I’ve been calling and calling to tell Nile that the Titans had nothing to do with the Mitras Airport bombing. For days now I’ve done everything to try to get that message out of Maria - all to no avail -”

Bertholdt cut him off. “But the Titans are responsible for the Embassy attack.”

“ _ Yes _ ,” Nick admitted with a sniff. “That video was uploaded from Sina. Finally made it to broadcast! Brilliant piece of work -”

“Then it’s the same damn thing.” Bertholdt enunciated. He would have to head down to Session Hall soon. Anytime now, one of his staff would come round to remind him of that. And Nick still hasn’t gotten to the point.

“I haven’t time to listen to your bragging,” he finally said. “The airport bombings have long been laid to rest. The Titans have been officially implicated in it and nothing you can say or do will change anyone’s mind. It’s the Embassy attack that’s got everyone riled up into the Second Vote.” 

Bertholdt carded a hand through his hair, gripped, and tugged in despair. He shouldn’t have to be explaining this to Nick, of all people, twenty minutes before Session, of all times!

“Look, Nick,” he blew, frustrated, “attacking the Embassy  _ like that _ and uploading footage of  _ that murder _ online was just about the  _ stupidest goddman thing you’ve done _ because now everyone feels sorry for Maria and everyone wants Maria to be the one to deal with the Titans  _ on their own soil _ .”

Pastor Nick fell silent, chastised. For a long moment, he and Bertholdt merely breathed into the phone. It was only when the young M.P. muttered about hanging up that Nick quietly admitted, 

“I know. I got in trouble with Grisha for that.”

“So why -”

“I’m going to make up for it!” Nick suddenly roared, desperation so loud Bertholdt feared it rang through the receiver. “But Nile has to cooperate,” he gritted. “Grisha made us out to be partners. We were supposed to work together in this! Split the gains evenly! I won’t lose out just because Nile would rather chase after that bitch! If he won’t work properly with me,  _ by god, I’ll make him! _ ”

A dreadful promise rattled out of that tirade. Bertholdt felt the warning shimmer in the surface of his mind. Cautiously, 

“What are you talking about?”

Nick could have whooped in triumph. The best thing about Hoover, he always thought when he was just suggesting that Nile place the boy as the final M.P. for his party, was that he was impressionable. He didn’t need to know all the details. One only needed to tell Bertholdt Hoover the essentials. The cogs in his mind would then turn of themselves, he would come to his own conclusions, rightly or wrongly, and then would act as expected.

Now, all Nick needed was for him to carry a warning.

“Nile didn’t tell you?” he feigned ignorance in a high, shrill voice. “And here I thought he would share -”

“ _ What the hell are you talking about? _ ” Fifteen minutes to session. A staff had come knocking. Bertholdt waved the peeking face away, gesturing at the phone glued to his ear.

“Nile has been… _ availing _ of the services of the Marian Embassy.” Pastor Nick sounded much too complacently smug about this. “Specifically, the services of Levi’s Chief of Staff, for himself and for Reiner. Didn’t they ask you to the party? -”

Bertholdt was inexperienced. Maybe relatively ignorant. Maybe a little out of touch with the inner circles of Parliament. But he had heard about you and your reputation. And now he believed he understood why Nile Dawk had been so ready to blame the Titans for every violent incident in Sina, and so ready to shut down investigations of the Mitras Airport bombing before they could even really begin.

He saw it clearly in his mind: Nile was double-dealing. Pastor Nick was on to him, and would squeal to Grisha Yaeger. That would be the end of him. And the end of  _ him, of Bertholdt Hoover _ , too, whose Parliamentary career depended on the continuation of Nile’s.

“...Nile’s becoming bolder about it.” Pastor Nick was still talking. Still going on in that self-satisfied tone of his. “Remember repatriation day? Maybe you didn’t notice, but a friend of mine managed to come across a pretty damning photograph of him and that woman. Acts all prim, she does, but the moment Levi’s back is turned, she’s got the Prime Minister’s hand on her ass…”

_ Shit _ . 

He had little more than ten minutes. Nile’s office was just down the hall. If he booked it there now, he would make it just in time to warn Nile. For him to be able to do what, exactly, with session chugging up to their faces, Bertholdt didn’t know. But he had to warn Nile. 

“I received those photos privately, of course. But I thought you’d like to know. And maybe you’d like to inform Nile, too. If he makes it clear we’re still playing on the same team, I’ll keep those pictures to myself. Even send him copies, if he likes.”

Bertholdt hung up. He was already storming to the Prime Minister’s office, the toga his aide held out to him crushed in his hand.

\---

“Well  _ hello _ , sweetheart,” Nile fairly leered as Reiner showed you into his office promptly one hour before the opening of the nine o’clock session. “I say you’re even more breathtaking early in the morning.”

You bit back a retort, forcing your eyes not to roam as the memory of your last visit shuttered through your mind. Nile didn’t miss your nervous bristling, not the way your gaze finally, involuntarily, despite your best efforts, settled on the square of carpet where he ravaged you.

A wicked grin spread over his face and he patted his knee. “Don’t be afraid. I’m in a generous mood. Come sit on daddy’s lap.”

You hesitated. There would be no time to change in case Nile got it into his head to ruin your clothes. From the way he watched you, raking you from head to toe and back up again, you had no doubt he would. 

“Come on. If you obey quickly, you won’t be punished.”

Cold dread shot down your spine. You licked suddenly dry lips. You couldn’t bear a repeat of the last time. Not now, with session an hour away. Nile was waiting, fingers drumming on the inside of his thigh. 

Your gut contracted in fear. But it had to be done, and you had to be brave. You threw yourself willingly into the big league. It was time to play.

_ Don’t let anyone make you cry again. _

Gnawing the inside of your cheek, you held yourself straighter. Swallowed the tremor in your voice. Kicked off your shoes. Shed your jacket and tossed it to Reiner, bidding him,

“Don’t wrinkle it.” 

Your voice came out stronger than you’d dared to hope. Nile’s eyebrows shot up to the top of his forehead, face arranged in pleasant surprise.

Emboldened, you wriggled out of your dress, still holding on to Nile’s gaze. Bent over, rolled off your stockings, unhooked your bra, and finally, slipped off the tiny panties you chose for the occasion. All of it joined the jacket in Reiner’s arms. 

The Prime Minister’s trousers were visibly tented by the time you swayed towards him, swatting away searching fingers as you bowed to his level. Hungry eyes flashed to the breasts which hung mere inches from his face.

Both Erwin and Levi were right. Men were simple creatures. You would beat them when they tried to mimic your game.

“I received an order for a blowjob today,” you breathed into Nile’s face, gloating when he nodded fervently and buried his face in your hair for a long whiff.

You responded with a nip to the shell of his ear. He shuddered.

“Sit on your hands.”

Instantly, his wandering paws, which were halfway to your ass, dropped back. Only once they were safely under their owner’s thighs did you deign to settle on Nile’s lap. His head dipped to your shoulder, kissing a fervent trail from your neck, down your arm, to the underside of your breast. 

“Just a blowjob,” you clarified, turning and winding both arms around his neck. Nile’s mouth found the hollow of your throat, where he licked as you spoke. “Nothing more, nothing less. I’ll be good to you, but if you move out of turn, I’ll leave without letting you cum.”

He nodded as if gagged, tongue glued to your skin, lapping up your trachea, nibbling kisses along your jaw to under your ear. By this point, you supposed he would have agreed to anything.

To reward his compliance, you rubbed the aching bulge in his trousers and slid down, now scratching the inside of his slacks, now languidly massaging his thighs. His hips rutted of their own accord, pushing as you mouthed his clothed erection. For a wicked moment you thought about how funny it would be to make him cream his pants.

Red lipstick imprinted,; faded against the black fabric. 

“Hurry.” Sweat beaded on his forehead. He was red-faced with impatience. “Take it out and  _ suck my dick, for fuck’s sake! _ ”

Mascaraed lashes brushed over powdered cheeks. You freed his cock, letting it smack you in the face as it sprang out of its confinement. Nile groaned at the sight. Thumbing off the smeared precum, you wrapped both hands around his length, working it slick, lifting your gaze as you enveloped it in your mouth.

The moan you dragged out of Nile could only be described as beatific.

You bobbed a handful of times, gliding the hot flesh up and down your tongue, licking and sucking eagerly before suddenly popping off. The man, who had slunk down his seat and thrown an arm over his eyes, fairly howled in protest.

“I can’t go on.” You sat back on your heels, hands slipping from his shins, your chin glistening with spit and slick.

“What the fuck are you talking about? Of course you can -”

You shook your head, hands falling, folding, just over your nakedness. “I can’t. Not when I keep worrying over Second Reading. I can’t think of anything but! It’ll be all over if we blow Second Reading -”

“Good god, girl! You want to talk blow? Well, I’m unattended and about to blow! Those Titans will wait on my sayso!” 

Before he could realise what he let slip, you knelt forward, breasts crushed against his knees, hands back at his thighs, inching up to his needy crotch. “And my people, Excellency?”

He couldn’t think straight. Not with you pressed up against him like that. Blinking at him like that. It took his all to talk through his throbbing cock. 

“It’s ‘daddy’,” he ground out, gyrating his pelvis. “When we’re together like this and you’re being a good girl like that, you call me daddy.”

A shy smile spread across your face. Like this, you looked almost angelic but for the fingers dancing up and down his cock.

“Yes, daddy, as you wish.” 

Nile’s head dropped back with a sigh as you took him back into your mouth. He had truly hit gold, he thought, when he landed you. None of the prostitutes he’d had did quite so thorough a job as you. None of them ever sucked him with such gusto. And you didn’t even cost him half what the others did.

“Kitten,” he murmured, rocking into the top of your throat, “let me touch you. Your people will be all right; only let me hold you.”

Your voice went straight through his dick, “Yes, daddy.”

God. Finally.

His hands sank through your hair, combing over your scalp as he pushed in and out of your mouth. You found yourself relaxing at this surprisingly gentle pace, eyes slipping closed as you lost yourself in the slurping, swirling motions of your tongue across his cock.

“I’m keeping you for myself,” Nile murmured through your minstrations, silken curls slipping past his fingers, the rough heel of his left hand cradling your temple. “I’ll pay any price for you, Levi be damned. My own little whore, how good you are…”

\---

Bertholdt could not believe this. 

“The Prime Minister is busy and has asked not to be disturbed.”

He had some idea about how Nile was occupying himself. “He is not too busy for this.” 

“I have my orders, Mr. Hoover.”

“Reiner.” He caught the man by the shoulders and drilled him with the most serious glare he could muster. They were contemporaries. Acquaintances. He might even daresay friends. Bertholdt could afford to be familiar. 

But with the Prime Minister’s staff bustling around them, they were liable to be overheard. Dropping his voice, Bertholdt murmured, “If you want to keep your job, let me in.”

Reiner looked dubious.

“It’s urgent.”

“Honest to god, Bertl. I’m just trying -”

Reiner was interrupted by a shout from behind His Excellency’s doors. A few of the passing staff paused. Shoving Reiner aside, Bertholdt burst through to Nile’s private chambers, slamming first through the anteroom, and then into the office proper, Reiner yelling and banging doors after him.

And there, head thrown back, dress shirt slatternly and fly undone, was the Prime Minister of Sina, moaning in ecstasy as he ejaculated into the mouth of Ambassador Ackerman’s Chief of Staff.

Behind Bertholdt, Reiner muttered an “I told you so,” and rapped on the door frame. Prime Minister Dawk, chest rising and sinking, called out a guttural, 

“What now?” 

He released your bobbing head.

“Hoover’s here to see you.”

For the briefest of moments, you glanced over your shoulder. Instantly, your eyes locked with Bertholdt’s. The poor man stood rooted to his feet, half fascinated, half disgusted by the display before him. Then Nile grasped your chin and tilted your face up to himself.

“Did you drink it all? Open and show me.”

Obediently, hyper aware of Bertholdt’s burning gaze, you opened your mouth, letting Nile sweep two fingers inside it, allowing him to grunt in satisfaction at its emptiness, before playfully chomping down on his digits and dragging your teeth down them.

He grunted at you, pulled his fingers free, and gestured at his groin. “Clean me up.”

“Yes, daddy,” you couldn’t help teasing as you lowered your head, making an exaggerated show of licking clean the Prime Minister’s spent cock. Bertholdt Hoover still hadn’t said a word, but his unwavering attention made you almost shiver with victory.

“What is it, Bertl?” Nile’s hand again moved up your head, stroking like you were a good pet.

Bertholdt’s eyes flickered down your bare back. “State matters.”

“For which you had to come here all the way? At this time?”

His assent was stony silence.

Nile shrugged. Tapping you on the cheek, “That’s enough, kitten.”

You popped off from his penis. It flopped wetly out of your mouth. Nile reached down to wipe your chin, smiling indulgently all the while. “You did very well today. You may go.” 

As you rose, he gestured towards Bertholdt. “This is M.P. Hoover. He’s a good friend who has been working himself to the bone lately -” Nile chuckled at his attempt to make a dirty pun. “So I may have him join us next time. Greet him properly, why don’t you, princess?”

Bertholdt couldn’t help it. He slid a step backwards as you stalked forward, all sweet smiles and heavy breasts and perfect, curving hips and eyes, he imagined, that dove into him and tore open his most innermost thoughts.

Flooded with panic, he attempted to stagger back, but in another moment you were upon him, guileless smile frightening. Adrenaline rushed up with the panic, and with it, an urge to lash out -

Then his tie was twined around your fist and you were dragging him down and forward, supple body pressing up against him. One arm was wound around his back. You gathered him to yourself as your mouth moved against his, hot, salty -

Bertholdt recoiled. A bitter aftertaste flooded his mouth.

Semen.

You pranced back, watching him, smiling, tongue darting out and gaze narrowing as if to immortalize the vestiges of his taste upon your lips. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hoover.”

Nile Dawk and Reiner Braun bayed with laughter. 

Bertholdt scrubbed at his lips.

You strolled away, naked but for black patent leather high heels, casually dressing yourself with the clothes Reiner left on the back of a chair.

The men teased, promising Bertholdt - their brother in arms - a taste of her. Great lay. A fine screaming voice. 

Certainly, Bertholdt thought, you heard it all. Heard how these men spoke of you as nothing more than an object; a toy. They probably thought of you as little more than that, too, jeering and leering the way they did while you sat in silence, clothing yourself leisurely and, apparently, with all unconcern. 

“You’ll love her,” Nile promised him, all within your earshot. “Best pussy I’ve ever had. But she’s picky. Damn straight she is! You got nothing she wants, you don’t get ass. An M.P. in your position, Bertl - she’ll never give the time of day, but stick with me…”

Your jacket was the last to go on. You swung into it. Swept out your hair, smoothed down your clothes, and walked yourself to the door, pausing only to call back, “Session’s in five!” before disappearing into the jumble of Parliament’s ancient, inherited home.

Bertholdt didn’t hear the rest of Nile’s review. He was too busy staring at the empty threshold, his imagination following you down the bowels of the building. The moral battle that briefly flashed through him snuffed out. Whatever urgent news he had come to say smouldered in a blaze of lust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plenty of times, the going just gets too hard and the disappointment's just too heavy. So when the Reader faces a hard task and I make her push through, I guess it's also a personal reminder to keep going. If I make other people do it (never mind if it's a fictional person), then I should be brave myself and keep soldiering on.
> 
> To anyone going through a tough time, let's do our best to rally ourselves and keep moving forward!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nile's a liar and a cheat.

It was all said and done. The cargo jet, repatriated pompously from Sina, was received quietly in Maria. The plane arrived at the military airbase where it was unloaded with only perfunctory media attention. Then the coffins were laid out inside the hangar for collection by the next of kin.

It all proceeded discreetly in accordance with the orders of the Queen. There was no need to agitate the masses by broadcasting the extent of the carnage.

Levi was expected to stay at least overnight to render a full report to Her Majesty. But instead of Historia, it was Dot Pixis who met him in one of the Palace’s innumerable drawing rooms. 

“Making yourself at home, old man?” Levi had said as Pixis into the sumptuous red and gold lounge.

The latter pretended not to hear. “Reports say you’ve managed to close an impressive number of deals.”

Levi flopped onto a chaise lounge, arm over the backrest, one ankle on the other knee.

“Shall I attribute them to the Ackerman’s golden boy, or shall I praise your team, too?”

That struck a nerve, if the flashing of silver eyes in Pixis’ direction was any indication. Unfazed, the old man uncapped his flask and took a swig. “Merely trying to give credit where it is due.”

“I’m sure you already know all the answers to your questions,” Levi retorted. “No need to be impressively annoying.”

“I cast no judgment, Levi. You, of all people, should know that.”

He did. Damn old geezer shot Levi’s idealistic dreams straight out of the water. But he was right, as his years of experience would attest. Diplomacy was not for the starry-eyed dreamers. Politics was cruel to those with kind intentions. The key, Dot had said, was to go into the fray without losing sight of one’s goal.

Erwin said that, too. 

Yet Levi couldn’t help feeling protective and defensive. “She’s damn good at what she does,” he spat out, as if in challenge. “And her methods are highly effective.”

“I have no doubt,” Pixis nodded. “Her efforts for Maria do not go unappreciated. Truly passionate diplomats are hard to come by.”

The words were out of Levi’s mouth before he could help it. “You’re not going to chew me out for pimping my Chief of Staff in exchange for favours?”

A brightness, like enlightenment, came over Dot’s face, as if he had been waiting all day to come to this discussion. Levi was not usually one to second guess himself, but if Pixis knew his protege, he could guess that this settled heavier on young Ackerman’s conscience than most things.

“Is that it?” he hummed. “Is she not doing it of her own volition?”

Irritation crossed Levi’s face. “Cut the bullshit, old man! You know that she’s whoring herself out and I’m encouraging it!”

“Facilitating it,” Dot corrected without missing a beat. “That simply means you’re partners in this.”

Levi stared at him. The word had apparently never crossed his mind before.

“You’re partners,” Dot repeated sagely. “I always thought you two worked wonderfully as a team, even before I retired. Now I see that I was right.” 

Behind him, his ubiquitous television droned on about the dawn of the Second Vote, panning across streets lined with people holding up placards now in support of, and now against, Anti-Titan Aid. In consideration of the turnout, large screens have been put up behind the gates of the Parliamentary Building to stream the deliberations live.

Dot inclined his head in that direction. “She’s become capable enough to attend deliberations in your behalf?”

“She’ll nail it.”

Dot didn’t bother to hide his little smile. “She shouldn’t have too much trouble. We’ve been doing what we can to support your...escapades, you know. Even if you don’t call home about them as often as we’d like.”

“What are you? My mother? ‘Call home’, my ass.”

“We really were surprised to hear about a Sina Titan cell,” Dot explained. “Especially since we’ve had to keep blocking declarations of non-relation from Pastor Nick all this while.”

“That monk’s been keeping you busy?”

“Whatever it was, the emergence of that Sina Titan cell played out in our favour. Upped our sympathy ratings, and struck panic into the Sinians. At least, a greater number of them.” As Pixis spoke, the gleeful look on Levi’s face spread. “We thought it best to cooperate, and began blocking uploads and broadcasts denying Pastor Nick’s involvement with those calling themselves the Sinian Titans.”

That finally earned him a laugh out of Levi, who planted his forehead in his hand and shook with mirth. “Goddamnit. A handful of us pitched in, but the whole thing was Erwin’s idea. Would have been funnier if a lot less people died. But Pastor Nick - fucking hell!”

“Erwin?” Dot repeated, taking only that detail and holding on to it. “Majority leader Erwin Smith?”

Levi nodded, quelling his laughter. “Yes. Tall, blond, and eyebrows. That Erwin Smith. It was his bright idea to blow up Mitras Airport at the same time the Titans bombed Trost’s. From there, it was a matter of two-way publicity: spreading the Titans’ principles of zealot democracy to the bored, explosive morons who could be counted on to turn extremist, and feeding fear of the original Titans to the voting masses.”

“Aren’t you old friends with Erwin Smith?”

“We went to the same university. Why?”

A shrug. Another swig at the flask. “He will make a useful ally.” Dot had finished his drink and now sighed in a haze of contentment, rolling the malty aftertaste in his mouth as he spoke. “Hold on to him. He will be more important to us soon.”

“Not to the aid bill,” Levi shook his head. “Goes on and on about a ‘fair exchange’ like the rest of them. Tariffs and trade ports for aid, that’s their slogan. Won’t stop for a moment to think that’s exactly why the Titans were formed!”

“All the same,” Pixis said mildly, eyes already beginning to slip closed to the tune of the television news. “Keep Smith close and stay in his good graces. He’ll be more useful than you think.”

\---

When you found Armin, people were already beginning to stream from the holding room into the Parliamentary Hall. It was more crowded than it was during the First Reading, and had the air of a cocktail party. Security was more pronounced, too, given the crowd, with plainclothesmen mingling with the suited guests, recognizable only by the transparent coil of wire behind their ears. 

Armin worried at the fringes of the departing crowd, now scanning the stragglers returning from the outdoor smoking area, bringing with them their perfume of tobacco, now sweeping the entire room for you, when you burst in from the main building and jogged to him, the click of your heels drowned in the chattering voices.

“Where were you?” he demanded. Poor Armin, although hailed as the boy genius of the Research and Policy Division, was painfully shy around strangers.

“Sorry, sorry,” you muttered breathlessly. “Meeting carried on much longer than expected.”

He didn’t look like he believed you, but a plainclothesman was approaching, intending to usher you in with the rest. On impulse, Armin drew forward on the pretense of unhooking a lock of hair tangled in your earring, and whispered, 

“There are talks of an impending attack.”

He had to pull back before you could reply. The plainclothesman was a foot away. Schooling your face into a grateful smile, you said, “Thanks! That was really starting to bug me. Shall we go in?”

Security accosted you anyway. Pleasant-looking and polite enough, but you didn’t miss the scrutinizing once-over he gave you and Armin. “Can you find your seats, madam?”

“Just fine, yes.” You and Armin flashed your passes. Attendee. Marian Embassy.

The guard nodded, pointing towards a little door off the main entrance to session hall. “Through that side, please. The only empty seats left on the front row.”

You thanked him and strolled away, muttering under your breath once you believed he and the other guard waiting by the second entrance were out of earshot. 

“What talks?” you muttered back as best as you could through a clenched smile. “Where?”

“Rumors going around -”

“Don’t duck your head!” God. He was being so obvious. You would have to have Hange bring Armin to more stealth assignments.

“- sorry. The cell here -” He cut himself off. You had reached the smaller passage. Again you showed your pass and were waved on. You and Armin squeezed your way along a narrow aisle flanked with rows of seats corralled against one side of the session hall. From there until you found your seats beside a cabinet minister and a Chamber of Commerce representative, there were no more chances to talk.

The two of you settled down, silent except only for the obligatory small talk with your neighbours. All around you, the M.P.s in their dark togas were skimming the stack of notes on their desks. The Prime Minister had not yet arrived.

“Such an unfortunate thing, that was,” your neighbour, who you recognized as the Minister of Defense, murmured, leaning towards you to be better heard in the racket of voices. 

You weren’t sure what he was talking about. Frankly, he looked half-drunk and half-asleep, nodding his slick pate as he teetered towards you. You began to wonder if he even knew who you were.

“I was there, you know,” he rambled on, the syllables revoltingly wet and thick on his tongue. “Repatriation day. I saw you. Ambassador Ackerman, too. A pity - what a great pity!”

He toppled in your direction only to catch himself with a meaty paw slammed on the edge of your seat. You swore it took your all not to lean as far back from him as you could.

“Thank you,” you replied, heart in throat with disgust. Your arm had brushed Armin’s. If he suddenly turned your way, he would get a mouthful of hair. “So kind of your Honour to make time for us. Thus far, Sina has been nothing but supportive.”

The cacophony of voices suddenly rose. All eyes swivelled forward. The Prime Minister had finally appeared, sweeping in with the coolest, most unconcerned expression. To your relief, your neighbour straightened himself, though his hand remained firmly encroached on your seat. As the gavel banged and the bailiff called the session to order, he managed to whisper, 

“You can count on Sina’s continuing support, my dear.”

You bit back a wince, and hoping to everything good and holy that no one else heard that remark or that, if they did, they thought nothing of it. Still, just to be sure, you crossed your legs and shifted away from His Honour as discreetly as you could.

Session opened with a sceptical Parliament. For most of the morning, the M.P.s debated over the necessity, practical, moral, and legal implications of aid. Somebody pointed out that in nearly all cases, aid for the sake of anti-terror activities was not objectionable per se, whereupon a minority party member attempted to resurrect debate on whether the Titans were universally acknowledged terrorists, or technically, just a domestic insurgent group. 

Nile’s pleased smile over this turn of confusion quickly dissolved with M.P. Smith’s observation that, in any event, Sina has declared the Titans to be terrorists, so debate on that matter might as well be laid to rest.

Parliament grumbled in agreement and moved on.

You released the breath you didn’t realise you had been holding. Erwin had come through, as promised. Where they were clenched into fists on your lap, your palms were damp with anxiety. 

“You see?” your hefty neighbour remarked, shuffling his mass around his seat. He waved a hand in the direction of the debate. “They’ll vote for aid.”

But by noon, Parliament was still unconvinced. Complaints on the cost of aid, recoupment of that cost, accounting, and control over the funds and military assets flew around the theatre while Nile sat back and watched the dissatisfaction grow, sneaking his party mates just a little bit more floor time to air their grievances against Maria. 

Under the influence of all the speeches, even your neighbour had begun to change his mind, forgetting all his assurances to you in favour of vocally agreeing with the raised voices of the minority.

When session broke for lunch, it was generally believed that deliberations, at the pace they were going, would have to be extended for another several days. 

Erwin searched for you. You were rising with the rest of the guest observers, dodging the excessive courtesy of the Minister of Defense. Erwin wanted to shoot you an apologetic look, but all he caught was the frustration etched on your face.

\---

“You see, Bertl? I’m not as dumb as you think I am.”

Doors banged open and closed. The Prime Minister’s office suites were empty, the staff having escaped for lunch break an hour or so ago while the demonstrators outside thinned under the noonday sun. Nile swaggered inside, tugging his tie loose, M.P. Hoover striding after him. 

“Nick’s threat is no laughing matter,” Bertholdt scolded. “You know he’s just crazy enough to try it!”

In the aftermath of that humiliating kiss, while he and Nile and Reiner rushed to make it to session on time, Bertholdt had managed to gather his wits, grudgingly forgive his Prime Minister (if only to ensure the stability of the Minority Party and of his own Parliamentary seat), and disclose unabridged Pastor Nick’s threat.

“So I grabbed a girl’s ass,” Nile had initially shrugged the matter off. “Big deal.”

Bertholdt railed and cursed at him then, outlining the full implication of Nick’s threat with words such as ‘bribery’ and ‘huge sex scandal’. Nile glared, but the warning seemed to have got through to him, because he promised to do what he could to appease Pastor Nick.

Once all of them were safely esconsed by themselves inside the elevator, the Prime Minister lamented having had no time for his post-fuck-drink in lieu of his post-fuck-smoke, and then proceeded to praise “Levi’s girl”.

“Would you look at that!” He exclaimed, thrusting his (now zipped up and clothed, to Bertholdt’s immense relief) crotch for his companions to examine. “Busted my rocks and cleaned me up without a spot of cum on these slacks!” He laughed. “That’s real talent! The girl’s made for fucking, I tell you!”

Now Nile, in his usual languid self-satisfaction, threw himself onto the sofa and called out, “Can a man get anything to eat, Reiner?”

“On it, sir.”

Nile shut his eyes as he lay against the cushions. “Join us for lunch, Bertl. Not like you can get anywhere, anyway.” 

With the demonstrators returning to their vigil and the members of the majority party keeping to their office like studious little geeks, the members of the minority party were forced to follow their wretched example in the guise of working even during recess.

But Bertholdt was interested only in picking up the thread of the interrupted conversation from earlier in the day. “You cut a deal with her, didn’t you? With Levi’s girl?”

Nile’s response was a vague groan that sounded like a spoilt child’s grumble.

“You did,” Bertholdt accused. “You promised to help her fight the Titans. And you also cut a deal - on the exact opposite terms - with Grisha Jaeger, promising him that you would work with Pastor Nick!”

“Sure.” 

Bertholdt’s doggedness at a time when all Nile wanted to do was to kick back and relax, was as irritating as the ceaseless buzzing of a fly. He wanted to tell the young M.P. to save it for later, but Bertholdt had fallen into a disapproving silence.

Nile cracked an eye open. “What now?”

That did it. “You were - are - double-dealing!” M.P. Hoover exploded. “ _ What now? _ ”

“Nothing!” He couldn’t get any rest like this. Nile pulled himself up straighter, determined to settle with Bertholdt once and for all. 

“It’s no big deal,” he said, enunciating every word as his gaze dove into the other’s. “Did you never learn to hold up the bargain that gets you the most returns? Between Grisha’s promise of support and that girl’s meagre offering of her body, the choice is pretty obvious!” 

He cackled. “That cunt’s got nothing on me! What’s she going to do? Tell on her daddy that I broke my promise? Fucking hell,  _ I’m _ her daddy!” And the Prime Minister roared in laughter. “She’s just a fun time, Bertl.”

Nile was either too careless, or too foolhardy. Bertholdt liked neither option. His lips tightened into a thin line. “You cut a deal with that girl, you cut a deal with Levi. You know that, don’t you?”

Nile waved his concerns away. “To hell with Levi! He’s just a -”

From where he stood behind Nile’s door, Erwin stepped away. He’d heard enough. Besides, Reiner was just about finishing his phone call and would probably leave the private office soon.

Quietly, without looking back, he slipped through the staff offices, seeing himself out of Nile’s suites just as Reiner opened and closed the private sitting room door. And with head held high, as if he had come from official business with the Prime Minister, Erwin strolled leisurely back to his own office. 

\---

You were stewing. 

After the morning session, they’d put you and Armin in a reserved meeting room. Just in case you’d like to ‘confer’, they said.

Neither of you had said a word to each other since. Taking a cue from the misgivings aired during the morning, Armin had dived straight into his notes, tagging and marking and preparing refutations for the afternoon’s panel discussion. On the other hand, you, who were to be interrogated during that panel discussion, were stalking up and down the little room, fuming at Nile Dawk.

The remembrance of his smug smirk was enough to make you itch to slap something. Preferably his face. And from the looks of it that morning, Nile didn’t seem like he was going to hold up his end of the bargain. Frustration welled in you, and all the old aches he inflicted stirred in response. Crossing your arms, you stilled before a blank wall and took a deep, angry breath.

No one had ever cheated on your bargains before, but there had to be a first time for everything, as infuriating as the idea was. The main thing now was what to do about it.

“...These pages I’ve dog-eared, go through them before the afternoon session,” Armin was saying. “These are the answers to the questions raised during the morning. I’m pretty sure they’ll be asked again this afternoon. Maybe antagonistically.”

Swallowing the breath, you turned to Armin. He was at the other end of the room, hunched over his binder of notes. You walked over to him and took the chair opposite his.

“No one’s going to ask questions with the intention of getting an answer.”

The boy looked up at you, brow creased. “What?”

“You saw them this morning.” Leaning back, you crossed your legs and contemplated the ceiling. The plaster, probably as ancient as the rest of the building, was immaculate. “Parliament takes very good care of its appearance, huh?”

“What.”

It became clearer to you, too, as you spoke. “This morning. They were confused; agitated. Parliament can’t decide how to feel about the Aid Bill. On the one hand, they likely see it as a great tool for restarting and leveraging trade talks. But on the other hand, they don’t want to let too much time pass before making a decision on the chance of the Titans striking again and the voting masses storming their doors with tales of their dead.”

Armin looked at you dubiously. You raised both brows at him.

“Come on. I’m sure you noticed. Sinians are a whole lot more volatile than Marians. They’re given to rallies and demonstrations. Remember Mitras?” you added almost under your breath.

Armin’s eyes widened in understanding. He, along with the senior members of Mikasa’s Public Relations and Information Dissemination Division, was part of the team Levi hastily assembled in cooperative response to Erwin’s bombing initiative. Over the course of several hours, their team staged the video confessing Titan involvement that now still circulated across mainstream media.

The fight with the Titans was as much an information war as an actual, physical battle.

“So you see,” you concluded, “To buy time with their people, Parliament’s going to ask questions this afternoon. They’re going to be aggressive about it,” you nodded at him, trying to shove away the invading thought that in any case, Nile should have done something about it, anyway. 

You raged on, “They’re going to argue with whatever we say, but they’re not going to listen even if we’re right, because the point of this afternoon’s session is to make us look unreasonable. If we’re unreasonable, they can tell their voters that, delay deliberations, and put off having to make a decision, all with impunity.”

“But this is the only time we get to take an active role in the deliberations!” Armin protested, aghast. His notes lay open, forgotten, on his lap.

You gave him a wry smile. “That’s why I’m so angry.”

“But -” he spluttered, still refusing to believe that all those sleepless nights and endless days of preparation are about to amount to nothing. “Wasn’t that why you had that meeting with the Prime Minister this morning? To see if we were on the same page with Parliament?”

“I thought so, too, Armin.”

He deflated almost visibly. “Well now what?”

You held a hand out for his notes. Reluctantly, expression stormy with worry, he passed them over before groaning in frustration, face in his hands. Now he brooded as you pored over the pages of meticulously compiled information.

“We’ll think of something,” you promised. You had to. Nile Dawk needed to be put in his place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? Did you really think just sex was going to get you everywhere?
> 
> Please tell me if this chapter felt weird. It was either going to be too long or too short or too choppy so I had to split it and add a scene. What do you think???
> 
> I headcanon Armin to be informationally smart, but not people smart. He doesn't interpret relationships/body language as well as he does data. So I think he doesn't know about Reader's extracurriculars. Dot Pixis, though, I headcanon to be knowledgeable about anything, and on top of everything. I aspire to be like him some day.
> 
> The idea for this started with the challenge to write so experimentally (curiously?) you make yourself uncomfortable. Well, I'd never really written smut before, and when I wrote patches here and there, I felt really squeamish about it. So I decided to give the challenge a smutty interpretation and jumped headfirst into a story premised on sex. 
> 
> Several scenes later, i began to doubt that the premise was realistic and translatable in the real world. But then I heard stories of a someone in our profession who traded sex for a favour with a someone in authority. It got me thinking that if such private happenings like that manage to get leaked, a politicians' sex grapevine wouldn't be too far-fetched. So I took what vague plot I had and ran away with it. And here we are.


	10. Chapter 10

The afternoon began civilly enough: greetings, an introduction to the agenda, and a group of you, invited participants and resource speakers, arranged down a long table in the middle of the hall. It felt rather like a trial, or a horrible university panel exam, with the Prime Minister up on his bench at one end, and a theatre of M.P.s ranged all around the other three walls right up, it seemed, to the ceiling.

The questions were basic at first: how much did you need, how did you plan to spend it, what safeguards were in place to ensure repayment -

“Who’s going to command the Sinian troops sent into your borders?”

You leaned into your microphone, seeking out the speaker from the light of his own. “I understand there will be joint efforts in the operations against the Titans.”

The gentleman who posed the question, heavy-jowled and ruddy-cheeked, reclined with a nod. “Good,” he said, voice rising and falling as it floated in and out of the range of the microphone. “Sina would like to retain control of equipment and personnel lent out, of course,” he emphasised  _ lent out _ , “especially since on top of a billion Thalers, you’re asking for a battalion of soldiers, with enough arms and ammunition for twice that number!”

A ripple of concerned voices cascaded around the hall. The figures mentioned were in the Bill and were discussed just this morning. But it was still shocking to refer to it that way, quite apart from the context of the scale of destruction the Titans have wrought and were capable of wreaking.

You shifted in your seat. Beside you, Armin wore a drawn expression. You moved to speak in an attempt to salvage the situation.

“The amount of military aid we’re asking won’t even dent a quarter of Sina’s reserves. As for the financial aid, Sina loaned out several times that amount last year.”

“But you’re also asking for -” the M.P. squinted into the page, “eighty years to pay at ten percent annual interest!”

You didn’t think aid was a profiteering venture. 

Your microphone flashed on again. “The figures were reached after considering the scale of the Titans’ operations, present and future damage on their account, and Maria’s cost of continued combat, prevention, and rebuilding after anti-terror operations.”

“Rebuilding?” Somebody else boomed. “You want us to pay for Maria’s rebuilding?” A hand slammed against a tabletop. “Maria won’t even share her ports with her neighbour, won’t give our trade and industries breathing space from her tariffs!”

The rising murmurs were turning into a proper din. Parliamentarians were twisting in their seats, faces anxious, conferring with similarly rattled seatmates. Majority and minority party members alike were alarmed.

It was all going to go to pieces.

You lunged forward, one moment jabbing the speaker button on your microphone; the next, hearing your voice cut through the confusion, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is exactly what the Titans want!”

All activity halted. Raised tones fell into silence. Even Armin watched you in horrified silence. You were suddenly aware of only two things: all eyes on you, and the torrent of words that would not now be dammed.

“Investigations have discovered that the Titans are supported by a prominent member of Sinian society.” 

Most of the gathering sported confused expressions. Others were dubious. Erwin Smith looked properly grave while Nile Dawk was near completely white, staring at you in disbelief from his high perch.

“There is also a chronological relationship between the rise of the Titans and Maria’s declaration of economic independence which, as I’m sure Your Honours are aware -” you ignored Armin’s tightening pinch on your elbow. Nile Dawk was ready to explode. “- included port regulation and re-establishment of tariffs.”

The M.P.s found their voices. A buzz of private deliberations once again swept over the session hall. Encouraged by this, you pushed on,

“In nearly all deliberations for anti-Titan aid, the subject of open ports and removal of tariffs have always been proposed as some sort of fair exchange, when in reality, it is anything but. Maria will lose a significant amount of income with the slashing of tariffs, but will simultaneously have to pay steep interests on financial aid granted by Sina.” Your heart was hammering in your chest. “Titan operations have affected both our countries. This is not the time for trade negotiations. This is the time for cooperation; for -”

“Get a load of this conspiracy theory!”

Chaos erupted at once. Jeering shouts of “Fraud!” and “What a scam!” echoed throughout the hall. While the few remaining level-headed Parliamentarians attempted to restore order, the Prime Minister simply watched the spectacle with immense amusement.

The hard grip on your elbow turned into a tug. Armin looked positively frightened. But you were too hot; pumped too full of adrenaline to stop now.

_ Nile Dawk’s going to win _ , chanted a voice in your ear.  _ He’s got one over you. It’s finished now. _

“They won’t listen,” you heard yourself murmur to the voice. “Not to reason and not right now.”

Ignoring Armin’s pleas to please, please,  _ think before you act _ , you shook him off, pushed away from your seat, and marched towards the Prime Minister’s dais.

Nile Dawk chose to ignore you.

You stalked up. He made a point of turning the other way. You kept going. Security glanced at you for a moment, took stock of the Prime Minister’s own unconcern, and returned to watching for signs of actual violence in the hall.

It was a public session. It was broadcasted live. From out of the corner of your eye, at the edge of your consciousness, you saw the spectators stirring; growing uneasy. Perhaps, that peripheral part of you thought and seized upon the idea, it would do to appeal to them instead.

You ascended the Prime Minister’s bench. Nile was frozen with tension.

“Your Excellency,” you called, trying to be heard over the ruckus. “Won’t you restore order?”

He barely graced you with a sideways glance. “This is true democracy, can’t you see! This is the voice of the people! Such lively, spirited debate!”

“Your Excellency,” you tried again, “this is going to turn into a riot!”

This time, he whipped around to glare at you. “I’ll run my parliament as I see fit - without your interference!”

Somewhere off to the east end of the hall, a fierce argument had begun to break out. Erwin, one of the nearest bystanders, was forced to try to cool tempers. He shot you a glance. Nile remained smugly inert.

The ruckus was escalating. Some had begun to get up, shouting as they paced the aisles. Press members were spilling out of their seats, while members of the general public eyed the exit doors. Parliamentary security was beginning to move.

Nile Dawk simply let it unravel.

Heart in throat, without stopping for thought, you snatched the gavel from right under the Prime Minister’s nose and brought it down hard - thrice.

Nile flinched. You tossed the wooden gavel away and faced the session hall.

“The Titans are  _ real _ ,” you declared, breathing hard with exertion and nerves. “They have arrived in Sina. The other week, they bombed your Mitras Airport. Last week, they attacked our mission and murdered our diplomats. Tomorrow, who knows? They could target this building, with all of us still in it!”

A half hour recess had to be called from the riot that erupted immediately afterwards. Security, finally gathering their wits, hustled you back to your seat.

At the end of the long day, the votes were tallied.

The Marian Anti-Titan Aid Bill passed Second Reading.

\---

The phone in Reiner’s hand rang. From the way his face twisted, it was ugly news. Nile Dawk cursed, whipped his loosened tie over his head, and held out a hand for the device.

Grisha Jaeger’s measured tones filled his ears.

“Well, Nile?”

No good news. Nile elaborated as much as he could, projecting all his frustration and spite into the measly report. “It got out of hand,” he explained, pacing and raking a hand over his scalp. “That little bitch just about threatened to blow up Parliament!”

“First good idea I’ve heard in a while,” Grisha replied coldly.

“Come on, Grisha…”

“I understand that bills that have passed the Second Reading usually breeze through the Third.” Grisha Jaeger had his own private livestream of the pre-deliberation discussions at the holding room, and of the Second Reading deliberations itself. He was fully aware of the near-brawl that almost ended that day’s session. “And Maria’s Aid Bill just passed the Second Reading. Overwhelmingly.”

Nile coughed up a false bravado. “That was just the heat of the moment. By the Third Reading, everyone will have had time to coolly think it though. Besides, even if the Bill makes it through Third Reading, it still has to survive the twenty-four-hour veto window exclusively held by  _ me _ .”

Grisha pondered this, which time Nile spent fervently wishing he was changing his opinion of that afternoon’s mishap. And then in careful, individually enunciated words, he warned, 

“I hope you will always remember who put you in your position, Nile. This is your last chance. Do not disappoint me.”

The conversation lasted all of two minutes, and ended with Nile exhaling shakily, his face red and his brow dotted with perspiration. Trembling knuckles clutched at the slender phone. 

Session hall was empty, echoing conversations following the last of the people out of the building at the close of the workday. Faint goodbyes of clerks and staff wafted over, muffled sounds, into the holding room, deserted but for himself and Reiner.

Nile’s breath whistled through clenched, bared teeth. “Goddamnit!” Anger, liquid and red hot, seared through his body. “That goddamned girl!” He raised his left hand and brought it down hard, sending the mobile phone onto the floor, where it smashed into pieces. Briefly, the screen lit up with the last of its reserved, displaying a history of recent contacts made.

Grisha Jaeger and yourself.

Then the screen went dark as the sole of Nile’s shoes stomped upon it. Crushing it again and again until clearer thoughts replaced the fog of rage behind his eyes.

“We’ll have to turn Third Reading our way,” he said, hair spilling over his forehead. “If that fails, we will veto. But that bitch will pay,” he swore. “I’ll break her. I’ll send her back to Levi in pieces.”

\---

Grisha Jaeger sighed long and low, settling as he did into his hand-tooled leather easy chair. Across the table, Hitch Dreyse watched him, chin atop the pair of milk-white hands resting on the gleaming wood.

“Is he inefficient, that Nile Dawk?” she asked, voice as angelic as the rest of her. She talked as if they were discussing nothing more important than a faulty lightbulb.

“You might say that,” Grisha murmured, his eyes still closed. 

Hitch raised her head; glanced at the photos of the same boy, now a man, lovingly pressed under the glass atop Grisha’s desk.

Eren Jaeger, Grisha’s son, abandoned in person but never, Hitch thought with a pand of jealousy, in spirit. On his father’s desk, Eren Jaeger grew from cute infant to grinning schoolboy, to a messy-haired, hot-tempered adolescent and now, to a clear-eyed young man in a suit, a Marian diplomatic pin on the lapel.

As if reading her mind, Grisha said, “Is it too much to want to leave your only child the world?”

“Not at all,” Hitch replied. Her attention lingered on Eren’s face, on the hint of explosive, quick temper in his features. It would have been grand if the ‘child’ Grisha referred to had been her, but Hitch had come into the man’s life when he was already pining for his flesh and blood.

“I missed so many years of his life serving King Rod,” Grisha said. “I can’t get back all those years, but I can make up for them, can’t I? I can leave Eren the whole of Maria and Sina.” His eyes opened, and they settled on Hitch. “Then he won’t have cause to hate me. When I find Eren again, I can meet him with pride and neither of us will be able to say that he was ever abandoned by his father.”

Eren. It was always Eren, with Grisha. Through the clenching in her chest, Hitch beamed at the man she had come to consider as her adoptive father.

“Eren will definitely say he is lucky to have you as a father.”

“And I am lucky to have you.” Grisha reached over; patted her hand. “Hitch, dear. If Nile Dawk fails me, I’m going to have to let you take over.”

She clasped his hand with both her own and bent to kiss it. As much as she might will it, no amount of wishing or loyalty in the world could help her take Eren’s place in Grisha’s heart. But Hitch knew that already.

“I’ll be ready, father,” she promised, fully aware that in Grisha’s eyes, she would never, ever truly be a daughter.

\---

Giddy over the outcome of the Second Reading, you skipped into the Embassy House, for once home at a reasonable time. Exchanging another pair of congratulatory grins, you and Armin split up, he to his friends and you to the common room. 

It was miraculously empty. You kicked off your shoes, sank onto the couch, and heaved a happy, contented sigh. Levi would be home tonight and you’d made plans to meet him at the airport, so you couldn’t change into pyjamas yet, but you had good news for him and a few minutes of peace.

You savoured the quiet, intending to doze off as all the thoughts, notes, schedules, and reminders waterfalled away from you. They would be sorted out eventually. Later. Not now when you were enjoying your well-earned respite. Later when -

_ Talks of an impending attack. _

You flew up. Rest suddenly forgotten, you hurried through the house in your stockings, running up the stairs to Armin’s room hoping he hadn’t yet left for whatever it was he and his friends planned for the night. Thudding down the hall, you burst inside,

“What impending attack!?”

The poor boy shouted, completely surprised. He was in the middle of changing and was clad only in his dress shirt and a pair of boxers, his face red. Eren, who was in the room with him along with Mikasa, exploded into a fit of adolescent laughter.

“What?” you demanded. “Mikasa’s here, too!”

“I don’t count,” she deadpanned. “We’re all childhood friends. We grew up together. We’ve seen less than boxers on each other.”

“Close the door!” Armin wailed. Starting, you darted across the threshold and shut the world out of poor Armin’s apparent lack of modesty. Mikasa patted the empty space beside herself, which you took.

“What’s this about an attack?”

“Something Armin didn’t get to finish telling me about this morning,” you said, raising your voice for Armin’s benefit. But the boy had taken himself to the adjacent bathroom and was now barely within earshot. “I intended to ask him about it again but forgot until just now.”

“Oh. That.” Mikasa said it with a faint smile. She and Eren exchanged knowing looks. “It’s not really concerning.”

Eren flopped backwards onto the floor. “Might even call it a stroke of good luck,” he snorted. “For us, at least.”

“Fill me in anyway?” You were brimming with curiosity.

“Remember your fake Sinian Titan cell?” Mikasa said.

You nodded. Your team had hoped to nudge it into a motley assembly of gullible zealots who would sympathise with the Titans and get into their heads to commit sporadic acts of violence here and there in their name.

“Well, it’s come to life.”

You stared at Mikasa.

Eren piped up, “Our local Titans, without much prodding, are kicking off their career with a violent demonstration. We heard say it’ll be in full swing around seven tonight.” He winked at you. “That’s about the time Levi will be arriving from Trost, isn’t it? Why don’t you make it a date? It’ll be over at Market Square.”

\---

A shop-lined freedom park by day and a bustling night market after hours, the centuries-old Market Square was constantly replete with people. Tonight was no different, the light-strung cobblestone block of quaint shops and merrily decorated stalls wading in the foot traffic of students, young adult workers seeking a casual drink or two, parents with little children, and tourists.

A live band had set up in the middle of the square. Around it congregated handfuls of people with placards and posters. No one batted an eye. Peaceful demonstrations were a part of Market Square life. 

As the band geared up to play, a few of the rallyists picked up their signs to begin their march. Around their fringes, a small crowd of pleasure-seekers began to gather, more to hear the music than the protests. 

The band members exchanged glances. The drummer crouched at the edge of their podium to speak to the demonstrators’ leader, a wild-eyed man who flailed his arms to the tune of his shouted oration. Displeased with the interruption, the man swatted the drummer away and cursed at him with a few choice words. Shrugging, the young man returned to his bandmates, took up his seat behind his drums, and began to play.

As the music grew in volume so did the size of the audience. The demonstrators, frustrated over having been rendered inaudible, migrated to the fringes of the audience, forming a gate of chanting human irritation that cut them and the band off from the rest of Market Square.

A few passers-by spared them a glance but just as soon scurried away from their spitting vehemence. Over time, the demonstrators grew louder, shouting and stamping and marching outwards as if to invade the whole of Market Square. Visitors backed away, while one rummaged for his cellphone to call the police.

Before he could dial, the rallyists’ leader stepped forward, arms flung out on either side of himself.

“Brethren,” he boomed, “protect your freedoms and take back your patrimony! Maria is not our sister, but an oppressor who deserves to die!”

A couple of policemen arrived just as a couple of protesters doused their orating leader in clear, acrid liquid. It seeped into the cracks between the cobblestones and flowed outwards, tumbling in a thousand tiny rivers.

“Death to Maria! Long live the Titans, the defender of humanity!”

A sonic whoosh sucked up all sound. And then the silence was pierced by a shriek as the ringleader, who had ignited himself into a fireball, ran screaming towards the crowd, dancing in puddles of gasoline and razing up the thousand rivulets, which rushed in fiery lines across the cobblestone. People scattered. The live band turned into a cacophony of panic.

Market Square went up in flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not on Grisha's glass-topped desk - when I was growing up, my grandparents/grandaunts and uncles ubiquitously had these, and they all kept pictures of their children and/or family members under the glass. I don't see it much these days except for in old-timey, family-owned shops, so I guess they were a generational trend. HOWEVER, I do see Grisha Jaeger as the type to do old-timey things like keep a glass-topped table stuffed full of Eren's pictures. I think it reminds him of the reason behind his goals.
> 
> Nearly halfway through my written manuscript!
> 
> Trying to make full use of the remaining quarantine days by posting as often as I can, but some days I'm just too lazy to type. If anyone's still reading/waiting for updates, let me know! It'll guilt trip me into getting off my lazy (writing) ass. haha
> 
> Also trying out posting at different times of the day.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things keep going boom.

Levi was visibly pleased to spot you outside the arrival gates. The pair of you ducked into the nippy autumn wind.

“Well done,” he praised as your car pulled out of its spot and sped along the airport-to-city skyway. He reached for the little window between the driver’s and the back seats and shut it. “For a moment I thought it was all going to go straight to hell.”

“So did I,” you admitted, remembering the session that ended only several hours ago, concluding several weeks’ worth of work. “Nile was going to pull a fast one on us.”

“I’m not surprised,” Levi muttered. “All the same,” his contentment was palpable. He casually wound one arm around your shoulder. “I’m happy about today. Good work.”

“Today isn’t even over yet.”

“No, because we’re dropping by the Club, as usual.” 

The gentlemen’s club - or the Club, as you referred to it - was Levi’s happy place outside his nondescript across-the-city apartment. A refurbished nineteenth century intellectuals’ cafe, the Club boasted plush, discreet seclusion for the prissy, important gentlemen of Mitras. Levi frequented it so often that his favourite haunt - Room 49 - had been nicknamed the Ambassador’s Room in his honour.

“Not tonight.” The Ambassador’s Room was Levi’s thinking spot, his favourite place to unwind, and his first pitstop after each return to Mitras. Except tonight. 

Tonight, your driver took you straight into the heart of Sina, cruising through the commercial districts until the streets narrowed and the pavement turned into cobblestone, and modern steel-and-glass skyscrapers shrank into heavy red brick period structures.

“Old Town? You want to go on one of those walking dates popular with the kids?”

You laughed. “Way to sound like a geezer. We’re not that much older than those ‘kids’, you know.” But you weren’t going on a ‘walking date’ as Levi put it. “I planned something a little bit more up your alley.”

Somewhere behind the buildings of Old Town, a column of grey smoke billowed up from a glowing centre. As you drove closer, you began to hear the faint wails of emergency vehicles and to see the intermittent flashing of their lights.

Levi leaned forward. “That’s not a bonfire, is it?”

“No.”

He swept you a curious sideways look. “This is going to be one of our more interesting dates.”

“You might say that.”

You detoured around several blocks, skirting what appeared to be a major conflagration several streets away. When the dashboard glowed orange from the reflected firelight and smoke from the flames filled up all of your visible sky, your driver slowed, eventually coming to a halt beside an old fortress that, in the last sixty or so years, had been converted into an upscale hotel and restaurant with the city’s only tower bar. 

A waiting valet opened the door. You and Levi stepped out.

“Quite a blaze, isn’t it?” you remarked casually. 

“Yes, m’!” The lad chirped importantly, no doubt feeling like an eyewitness at the scene of a crime. “Crazy dude lit himself up over at Market Square.”

“You don’t suppose you have a spot with a clear view of it?” Levi joked. But the attendant nodded vigorously. 

“Oh, yes, we do. Up at the Armory.” He looked up, nodding in the direction of the fortress’ northeast turret, recently outfitted with a glass terrace and medieval-style pennants. “A little crowded tonight, though.”

“Isn’t it lucky we have reservations?” you grinned, threading an arm around Levi’s arm and tugging him along as he finished pressing a folded bill into the valet’s hand. You led him across the lobby, found the lift for the Armory, and in a few minutes were being ushered to a table by the glass terrace around the tower.

“We could move to you to the middle of the room,” the hostess fretted, stealing glances at Levi as if she recognized him from somewhere. “The smoke from the fire down at Market Square might blow into the terrace and the outer tables.”

“We’re all right,” Levi waved her away. “It doesn’t seem to bother anyone else.” True to his word, a small congregation of diners were even clustered at the terraces, peering into the fiery scene across the road on the next block. “Bring us two scotch, please.”

Outdoors, the heat from the fire had warmed the nippy autumn night. Several patrons, sans jackets, stood around with drinks in hand. You and Levi found a spot and peered over.

Below, the street around the east side of the fortress was jammed with emergency vehicles. Down the block, old buildings stood etched in orange and charcoal grey as tongues of fire and billows of smoke swirled into the heavens. Your fellow dinner guests kept up a running news commentary.

_ Market Square’s on fire, with several dead. _

_ Not just dead. Burnt to a crisp! Can’t you smell the cooking flesh? _

_ That’s disgusting! _

_ It’s true! Some madman yelled ‘Death to Maria’ and torched himself! _

There were chortles all around.  _ What a crazy bloke. _

Then a more sober voice put in, “It’s an act of terror, you know. Reports all around say he declared support for the Titans.”

The voice buzzed in shock and concern.  _ But that’s bullshit! The Titans are Maria’s problem! _

The owner of the sober voice scanned his audience. His eyes found yours and Levi’s, and then casually drifted away as if you were no different from the rich gossipers gathered around him.

“They’ve decided to bring all that to Sina, I guess.”

You recognized the voice of Franz Kefka, one of Mikasa’s subordinates from the Public Relations and Information Division. Levi, apparently, had come to the same realisation. He smirked and steered you back inside by the elbow.

“I’ve seen enough. Let’s go get our scotch.”

\---

Nile Dawk was just sitting down to dinner with his lovely wife and picture-perfect children when his phone rang. Marie shot him a pointed look. Excusing himself, he scraped up and away, mouthing, “Duty calls!” to his wife.

It was Reiner calling.

“Can’t a man have a quiet dinner once in a while?” Nile griped without a hello. 

“Not while Market Square is burning.” Reiner tersely relayed the now well-known report.

Nile cursed, but the other was not done.

“There was liquid gasoline on the ground, and fumes in the air. The moron turned himself into a fireball, ignited the people around himself and the band playing nearby, caused an electrical short circuit, and razed several heritage buildings.”

“Fucking hell.” Nile passed a hand over his eyes, walked himself to his study, and locked the door.

“Sorry, Chief. It’s going to be a long night. The Domestic Security Committee called for an emergency meeting. I don’t have to say you’re expected to attend.”

Nile heaved a great, irritated sigh. “Didn’t we tell Nick to lay off the excessive displays of violence? It inspires public sympathy!”

On the other end of the line, Reiner shrugged. “I just pass on the reports.”

“Fine. I’ll be there,” Nile rubbed his forehead. First that damn Second Reading, then Grisha Jaeger, and now, this. Was there no end to this blasted day? “Tell the committee I’ll join them in half an hour.”

No sooner had he put his phone down and gotten up to also excuse himself from the movie night he promised Marie and the kids than his phone rang again, this time from a familiar but unsaved number.

“Dawk!” came Pastor Nick’s relieved greeting.

“I thought we agreed to use our heads,” the Prime Minister grumbled back. “No thanks to your newest project, I have to work overtime tonight - and god knows for how many nights afterwards.”

The old priest was silent.

“Well?” Nile growled.

When he spoke next, Pastor Nick was cautious, choosing his words as if he was playing guessing games on a minefield. “What are you talking about?”

“Your minions!” the other spat. “Why the fuck are they in Sina and  _ why the bloody fucking hell _ are they targeting Sinian properties!”

“But that’s just what I was calling about,” Nick explained, the most serious he’d ever been. “Grisha stopped sending me money. We haven’t got enough funds to mount any serious offensive here, much less out there in Mitras.  _ We can’t afford to support an international cell! _ The last of our money went into the Embassy attack - hiring hitmen and gassing the place up with cheap fumes.”

Nile’s breathing carried through the static. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“I tried!” Nick’s voice turned shrill; agitated. “I tried to tell you! We’ve made videos denying involvement in the violence in Sina. We’ve been trying and trying to get them broadcast but can’t!”

Of course not, Nile instantly thought. If the Marian government caught wind of it, they would have blocked every attempted upload.

But Pastor Nick didn’t have to know that yet. If the old coward caught onto even a whiff that Marian intelligence might be closing in around them, he would give up the entire operation. It would moot the Aid Bill, but it wouldn’t give Grisha the trade deal he was gunning for. 

Nile could guess how such a scenario would end: Nick would be executed, and Grisha would set up a new Prime Minister for Sina. But Nile Dawk was not ready to step down on account of a cowardly zealot. 

He made a quick decision. 

“There’s been a change of plans,” he said into the phone, hunching over and lowering his voice even though he was alone. “We need to destabilise Maria.” 

If the worst came to be and the aid was approved, it wouldn’t go anywhere if there was no one to receive it. And without leadership, or any semblance of it, the Titans could rise up again and wreak all the havoc Nile needed to force open trade talks vis-a-vis aid implementation.

“The shot caller here is that clown,” he hissed to Nick. “But Dot Pixis is effective only if he has a charming mouthpiece in the form of the Queen. I need you to get rid of them both.”

Pastor Nick contemplated the idea. “Assassins of that level are hard to come by, Excellency. And when they do, they don’t come cheap.”

Money. It was always money with Pastor Nick.

“I’ll let Grisha know. The cash will be in by morning. I expect action at once.”

Now appeased, Pastor Nick returned to his usual sing-song speech. “Aye-aye, Chief!”

Nile would wire the money himself. Grisha Jaeger didn’t need to know about it. After all, as long as their common objective was met, Grisha would be content and that would be enough.

Taking a fortifying breath, the Prime Minister raked his hair back into a semblance of neatness, dialled the Sinian Police Director, and released himself from his study with his mobile pressed against his ear.

“Director? This is Nile Dawk. I’ve just received a tip that the supposed Sinian Titans are unrelated to Maria’s own Titans.” A pause. “Yes, they’re just a bunch of idiots. Will you look into this ASAP? I need it for an emergency meeting in twenty minutes.”

To all appearances, Nile Dawk was the picture of an effective, passionate Prime Minister.

\---

Over the days leading up to the Third Reading, the Sinian Titans struck Mitras with spate after spate of attacks - theft of Social Security records, crippling of government websites, and sabotage of mass transport timetables, which caused nightmarish traffic jams and a near-fatal train crash.

The people of Sina were restless. Some took to the streets, calling for an all-out war against the Titans. Their more moderate compatriots clamoured for the quick passage of the Marian Aid Bill so that their neighbour could deal with the problem for everybody. 

All this time, the Marian Embassy whirred along as usual. The offices had moved to a new space at the fringes of the commercial district while the ruined Embassy was subjected to a thorough inspection in preparation for renovation. 

One afternoon, Interior Minister Keith Shadis showed himself into Majority Leader Smith’s private office, giving word that the two men were not to be disturbed. 

“Something I need to hear, Erwin?” he sat himself down at the opposite side of M.P. Smith’s desk and nailed the younger man with his dark, sunken gaze.

Erwin, fresh as a college frat boy, raised his head from the pile of paper he was poring over. “Hm?”

“The police are particularly interested in the Sinian Titan cell.”

“As well they should,” Erwin replied matter-of-factly, “considering all the trouble they’ve caused us this week. They even got past Parliament’s I.T.!”

Shadis was not impressed. His mouth remained a tight, drawn line. “Last week, they were looking for the original Titans. And they weren’t as busy.”

The other shuffled his papers with a shrug. “Criminals encouraged by Titan activity this week?”

Keith Shadis slammed his hand on the desk. Erwin started.

“Christ, Keith.” He gestured towards the scribble his neat margin notes had become. “Do you mind?”

The Interior Minister leaned forward. Up close, he totally lacked any sort of charm. “No, Erwin, I don’t mind, as long as you’ll stop bullshitting me.”

Erwin finally had the decency to put down pen and paper. “All right. What’s this all about?”

“The Sina Titans,” Shadis repeated. “I’m not the only one who noticed that their activity has increased while that of the Marian Titans have decreased.” Keith would admit that the younger man’s face, all open interest, was a piece of infuriatingly good acting. “What’s most interesting is that all of this is going on in the heat of negotiations over the passage of the Marian Aid Bill.”

“Say it plainly, Keith.”

Looking him straight in the eye, Shadis fired, “Those Sinian dumbfucks aren’t actually related to the ones in Maria, are they?”

Erwin’s expression didn’t twitch. But he didn’t say anything, either. And sometimes, Keith read more into silence.

“Look,” he said, suddenly wary, “we’re party mates. I trust you more than I do the others. I just wanted to tell you it’s getting obvious.”

Pushing away from his desk, Erwin settled deep into his chair, feigning hurt. “You’re suspecting me of having something to do with the Sinian Titans?”

“ _ No, Erwin. _ Goddamn.” Keith Shadis threw up his hands, exasperated. “But even a blind bat can see how cosy you are with the beneficiaries of the Aid Bill!”

Erwin pondered this, his fingers threading together. “Keith,” he murmured, “I’m being honest with you. I don’t control the Sinian Titans. I don’t have ties with them. Neither does the Marian Embassy. But you’re correct that we are friends and allies. I’ve known Levi since our university days together, and I believe in Maria’s crusade against the Titans.” 

His eyes, hooded with thought, fixed firmly on Keith Shadis. “What Levi’s team said at the close of Second Reading is true. I, too, have it on good authority that the Titans are the creation of a Sina power player, and I don’t believe that terrorism is an effective - or fair - means of negotiating with one’s neighbour.”

Keith Shadis’ eyes narrowed. “So who’s behind the Titans?”

A dry smile. “Give it a guess.”

“From Minority.” Shadis’ voice dropped to nearly a whisper. “It’s one of the most vocal opponents of the Aid Bill, isn’t it?”

A shallow tilt of the head. “Warmer.”

“Nile Dawk?”

A splitting grin. “Good man! You’ve got brains yet.”

“Fuck you, Erwin.”

They shared a laugh. Then Erwin murmured, “He’s under the orders of Grisha Jaeger. It’s to do with wrangling a trade deal side-by-side with the aid.”

“Should’ve known it!” 

The men settled into a thoughtful pause. After a while, Keith Shadis volunteered, “I suppose you want to keep tabs on them both.”

“Ideally.”

The other nodded, slapped his knees, and rose. “I’ll put you in touch with Eld Jinn, then.” 

\---

He saw you first. Down the hall, one door away. You had rushed down to the Club, interrupting Levi’s and Erwin’s evening drinks with documents that absolutely had to be signed at once, and had just left Room 49.

He paused at the entrance to Room 50, one hand already on the door handle. Smirked at you. Walked over.

“Fancy seeing you here.” He glanced at the folder pressed to your body. “Still working? You don’t let up, do you?” When he leered, the tip of his tongue flickered between his teeth like a snake’s. “Why don’t you have a cool down? Drink with me.”

The hallway was empty. Instead of security cameras, the Club stationed bouncers - security - at every corridor, to act as human surveillance cameras. That way, response in case of emergency was swift, and secrecy was absolute.

You stood your ground. “No thanks. I was just going.” Leaving a wide berth between you, you attempted to walk past. Nile Dawk sidestepped you and threw an arm across your chest.

“Don’t be so rude. What’s a drink between old friends?” 

“Levi wanted these sent at once -”

“Ah. Levi.” He gripped your upper arm, fist practically brushing against the side of your breast. He glared at the tightly shut door to Room 49. “They told me I couldn’t have the Ambassador’s Room tonight. Guess  _ that _ Ambassador’s in the house, huh?”

The hold on your arm tightened. You winced and tried to pull away, but Nile jerked you to himself. “That little chit’s been putting up airs.  _ Ambassador’s Room. _ Like he owns the fucking place. Thinks he’s better than the  _ Prime Minister _ , does he?”

“Let go of me.”

He scowled at you. “I have a better idea. Let’s go make our own fun.”

“No!” You shoved. Nile pinned you against a wall, practically spitting in your face as he snarled,

“Didn’t you say I get a celebratory fuck every time the Aid Bill passes a Reading? Well, you got what you wanted. It passed, didn’t it?”

“No thanks to you!” Bracing yourself against the concrete, you pushed back hard enough and managed to wrench yourself free, slapping him as he made another grab at you. Nile staggered, surprised by the sudden sting. 

“If that session fell apart, you would have been glad of it,” you growled, circling away from him as you clutched one side of your jacket firmly over yourself, hugging the folder of documents over the rest of your body. “You think you’re dealing with a stupid girl. A ‘worthless foreign secretary’. You think I don’t know you’re double-dealing. You think I don’t know that you have no intention of keeping your bargains.” Your voice rose, angry rant just about boiling over. “Well I know all about it! So take your bargains and shove them up your ass!”

He strode towards you, fury at being struck matching your own. “Don’t you dare walk away from me!”

You had spun around and were stalking away. He caught up to you and grabbed your shoulder. You shook him off.

“There’s still the Third Reading. There’s still the veto vote!”

You knew that. You’d thought of all that. But you couldn’t stop to consider that now.

“Fuck you, Nile,” you called over your shoulder. And you kept walking.

\---

Insulated from the drama outside, Erwin lounged at his second favourite haunt - the Ambassador’s Room. A few arms lengths away on his usual armchair perch was Levi, a glass half full of liquor dangling from his fingertips. He wore an expression of an ease so languid that Erwin had to comment on it.

“Been a pretty easy week,” the other replied, “at long fucking last.”

“Can’t say the same for me.”

Dark-humoured eyes flitted over to him. “That’s your own damn fault. It’s the handiwork of your brainchild.”

Erwin groaned. “Yours, too.”

Levi snorted. “Hell, no. It was your great idea. We just followed through. Didn’t expect it to take a life of its own but hey, here we are.”

“The police - and therefore, Nile - have been poking around about it.”

“And you let them?”

A shrug. “Only as would appear seemly.” Erwin stared at the glass cradled in his hands. Slouched over one end of the couch, legs draped across it, he looked every part the big, sullen kid. Levi liked to call it his thinking pose, and was not disappointed when Erwin mused,

“I think I’d like to be Prime Minister.”

“Not much different from thinking you’d like to walk down the street for some groceries, huh?” Levi downed the contents of his glass and put it away on the end table beside himself.

The clink of glass against wood roused Erwin from his tupor. He blinked, looked around the richly appointed room, and met Levi’s gaze. “No really,” he insisted. “I’ve been thinking about it for some time now.”

“Some time since Nile Dawk made your girl cry.”

Erwin’s expression hardened.

Levi shook his head. “It’s such a shitty reason, but I’m with you. We’re all just about sick of Nile Dawk.”

“We need to cripple Grisha Jaeger, too.” Erwin sat up, leaning with elbows on his knees. “I refuse to play to him.”

“He’s financing the Titans. As a matter of principle, I don’t like the Titans, so I’m behind that idea as well.”

The men exchanged grins. Erwin swallowed the rest of his drink, shuffled off the couch, and refilled their glasses. 

“Will you support my administration, Levi?”

“What’ll it cost me?”

Raised brows. The whiskey tricked steadily. “Trade deals, for starters.”

That got a good laugh out of Levi. “How about we clean up this Titan business first and discuss terms of alliance later?”

Erwin handed him his glass. Raised his own in toast. “I’ll take what I can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just how good is Reader's ass that Nile turns himself into a horndog at every opportunity? Or maybe Nile's natural state is horndog. These are kinds of questions I ask myself at three in the morning just after a chapter edit.
> 
> Also, it's been a looooong while since I watched aot (can't make myself continue just to witness Erwin die) so I've forgotten some of the characters names. Totally spent forever tracking down Thomas Kefka's name. I just kept calling him 'the horizontally sliced/dead cpr meme brunette dude' during the first and second drafts. Sorrrrryyyyyy.
> 
> Thank you, thank you to those who bothered to drop by to review. Most of my writing/editing gets done in the dead of the night. It tends to get lonely, so I'm insanely grateful for the messages/reviews that keep me company. They make me feel like I'm not the only one still awake at witching hour. (hahaha) Seriously, this day-early update is for you. ;D


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things escalate quickly. Loooooooooong chapter.

Bright and early on Third Reading Day, Erwin Smith was buzzed up to the top floor offices of Eld Jinn, Director of the Sinian Intelligence Unit. No less than the man himself met him at the elevators.

“Nice of you to see me so early,” Erwin shook his hand.

“Nice of you to come,” Eld Jinn grinned back. “Shadis said you were in a hurry.”

The two men walked down unadorned, unpainted concrete halls accompanied only by the hum of the central air conditioning unit. There were no windows, and barely any doors. Near the end of the corridor, Eld punched in a password, which unlocked a steel, vault-like door, and swept his arm inwards.

Erwin stepped into the most austere office he had ever seen - dran black out blinds across the walls, which were empty and concrete as the rest of the floor, and colourless but for a spot of pink on the desk. The M.P. picked it up. It was a miniscule succulent housed in a tiny, bright pink clay pot.

Eld laughed. “From my little girl,” he explained fondly, and gestured for Erwin to follow him behind his desk. Rousing his computer to life, he keyed in yet another passcode, and then pulled up sheet after sheet of indexes.

“An enumeration of Grisha Yaeger’s companies.”

Erwin leaned over his shoulder. “All of them suspicious?”

“No,” the Intel Director admitted. “But all of them useful jumpoff points to -” another document came up on screen, “-his bank accounts, investments, and holdings.”

“That’s a lot to wade through.”

Eld shrugged. “Nothing’s official yet, of course, since all these were obtained through backdoor access. But the long and short is this: Jaeger’s holdings include corporations and NGOs that Queen Historia’s been trying to stamp out of Maria for too eager participations in political lobbying. Jaeger’s also got an arms manufacturing corporation that’s got a thirty-five percent share and a directorate seat in Maria’s only arms-manufacturing enterprise.”

He glanced up to gauge Erwin’s reaction, but the M.P. didn’t appear to understand the significance of this information. Yet.

“From what we know of Titan weapons, those buggers exclusively use local, Maria-manufactured arms,” Eld additionally hinted. 

Erwin only nodded absently. “You suspect Jaeger’s cashing in on dividends from arms sales to Titans?”

Eld returned to his computer screen. He scrolled through an extensive investment list. “We found an interesting thing in his accounts - one account linked to his holdings firm regularly remits money to one of his NGOs. At first glance, it looks like a regular charitable transaction - tax deductions have even been claimed on it - because the money was going to a foundation dedicated to the rebuilding and establishment of schools. But the signatories for cash withdrawal -”

A click.

Erwin knew it before he saw it. “Pastor Nick.”

“Right. And this NGO has just been established, so the time for it to file its annual SEC and other reports hasn’t come yet.”

“Maybe they’ll disband before the end of the year,” Erwin mused.

Eld Smirked. “Maybe they will. They’ve certainly done it before. Multiple times.” He pulled up a list of defunct Jaeger-sponsored foundations, all of which suddenly went inactive in their eleventh month of operation, and all naming as responsible officers people notorious for their persistence in lobbying.

Erwin lifted his eyebrows, impressed. “You’ve done great work.”

“Of course. But how do we get a warrant to officially unearth all of this?”

A manila envelope clattered onto Eld’s desk. It contained only a thin collection of documents, each consisting of only three pieces of paper at most. The first two pages stapled together was a production contract where the Maria Arms and Munitions Manufacturing Corporation outsourced the production of high-powered firearms to the Jaeger Arms Company. 

Right underneath the contract was a notice bearing the seal of Maria’s SEC, directing the Maria Arms Corporation to explain the interlocking contract with the Jaeger Arms Company, and to show that it took steps to ensure that the weapons it manufactured did not fall into the hands of the Titans.

“The Maria Arms Corporation hasn’t been able to explain,” Erwin continued. “Shipping documents -” he tapped the envelope, “- additionally show that Jaeger’s company retained for itself a portion of the arms it delivered to Maria. Those arms cannot now be accounted for.”

Eld smacked his desk and grinned victoriously at Erwin. “Send those over as well. I’ll call the Justice Department about this myself.”

“Knew I could count on you.” Erwin patted his shoulder. “The Embassy will send a runner over this afternoon with a USB of the rest of the files.”

\---

Nothing could deter the crowd. Barely seven o’clock and the curb in front of the Parliamentary Building was filling with people, all jostling against the gates in the hope of scoring front row views of the expected Third Vote on-site live stream. 

Marian and Sinian supporters were divided in two distinct camps. Between them, neutral by-standers claimed whatever standing room was left. Newsmen uninvited to session hall were beginning to arrive as well, setting up equipment with styrofoam cups of coffee in hand.

It was just a little busier than the usual day. Riot police, forewarned, had deployed a squad on site. These men stood around the perimeters, chatting as they surveyed the peaceful scene.

There was no indication of trouble.

\---

Over at the Embassy, a few trusted personnel from Hange’s team, as well as a handful of freelance hackers - independent contractors, they liked to call themselves - commandeered Division Head Zoe’s freezing office.

The hackers sat together in a row, all hunched before their laptops, all connected to the Embassy’s spare VPN. Armin sat at the end of them, monitoring the proceedings outside the Parliamentary Building and inside the Session Hall from his stolen CCTV feed.

Their work began even before dawn. Ever since the Sinian Titans took down several government websites and breached Parliament’s computers the previous week, security had been amped up. Parliament’s defenses, in particular, had become a little bit more difficult to crack.

“Nothing yet?” Hange peered over the shoulder of one of her contractors.

“Close. Thought I had it, but nothing. Yet.”

“Keep at it.” She patted his shoulder and swivelled to you. “Session begins in an hour and a half.” _And nothing yet_ , went unsaid. The worry was plain in her eyes.

You prepared this backup plan to force Parliament’s hand into a favourable Third Vote. Erwin continued to promise that Majority was prepared to vote in favour, but you refused to take chances. Nile Dawk couldn’t be trusted even a smidge, and after cussing him out at the Club, you fairly expected sabotaging maneuvers.

One of the hackers groaned. Attempt blocked again. She ripped off her glasses and flung herself against the back of her chair, exasperated. Above them, the wall clocked ticked the minutes by. On Armin’s end, the cameras had captured the first stirrings of movement in the session hall.

“I’ll go grab coffee,” you muttered to no one in particular, shoving off from Hange’s desk. The anticipation was unbearable.

\---

By eight o’clock, staff arrived, flowing in a constant trickle through the back door. Offices were unlocked as agendas and notes were laid on the desks of M.P.s. The bailiff with his massive keyring punched the passcode to session hall and, upon being admitted, unlocked the great old doors.

Sunlight streamed from the floor-to-ceiling windows around the parliamentary theatre. It was most picturesque at this time of day, just before the heavy drapes were drawn shut against them in preparation for session.

A custodian whirred along with his monster of a vacuum cleaner, putting in a bit of last-minute dusting as clerks toured the theatre, setting sheaves of paper and bottles of water at every seat.

\---

At eight-thirty, the Prime Minister, high up on his dais, banged the gavel, called the session to order, and explained the agenda. It was all Third Readings this fine Friday morning.

Nothing better than passing laws just before the weekend.

The M.P.s in their seats, all robed in black, glanced through their own printed agendas. They exchanged confused looks. By some fluke or some sort of joke, the day’s main event - the Marian Anti-Titan Aid Bill - had been pushed to the very bottom of the day’s schedule.

Their voices buzzed through the theatre.

Nile Dawk let them be. Early in the morning, people came in thinking they had their minds made up. But as the day progressed, they inevitably got to hear differing opinions and opened themselves to the possibility of changing their minds.

That was the wisdom behind Nile’s scheduling. It was in addition to instructions given to Minority to preach their stand.

The bailiff strode to the front of the room directly underneath the Prime Minister’s seat, and called the first order of business.

Two hours of minor bills and petty resolutions consumed the morning. People conferred. Attention began to drift. Nile watched them flip the agenda and scoot over to gossip with their neighbours. He could almost hear them talking to one another -

_Hey, how about that Aid Bill -_

_Last in line, huh? Damn, we’ll be kept long -_

_How are you voting? -_

_Are you kidding? -_

And so on and so forth.

Nearing eleven o’clock, bursts of electric buzzing began to pop around the room. M.P.s, spectators, VIPs, and the press alike all looked up and around themselves. The M.P. who had the floor trailed off, flinching as the lights flickered.

“Just some faulty wiring,” someone remarked sensibly. There was an uncomfortable cough from somewhere, and the M.P. began to resume his speech.

A zapping sound cracked over everyone’s heads. The lights blew out.

Voices rose into the vaulted ceiling. Some people had begun rising from their seats when the bailiff, who was handed a torch by a custodian, flicked it on and gestured for everyone to return to their seats.

“Short circuit,” he bellowed over the silence of the microphones, in the yawning dimness making out several lumpy shapes scrabbling over and into each other. “That’s all. The lights will be back soon. Everybody sit down, please.”

No sooner had collective sighs been heaved than the stenographers uttered little shrieks. When the glow of the torch swung over to them, they had already scrambled away from their computers, which had sparked and were now fuzzing in and out and up and down like dizzying versions of static on old television sets.

A couple of people with “I.T.” emblazoned across the backs of their jackets jogged out to have a look. At the same moment, blinding light flashed throughout the room, accompanied by the loudest bang that ever echoed in those ancient chambers. 

People screamed, their thundering footsteps drowning out the desperate bangs of the Prime Minister’s gavel. Order now wholly abandoned, bodies rushed to the exits at the top of the theatre, pushing and shoving even as those crushed against the doors yelled that everything was electronically locked and would not budge.

In rapid succession, starting from the lowest to the highest tier, the screens of all the computers in the room blazed to life, flaring white, winking black, coming back on empty, and then rolling lines and lines of endless code, zeroes and ones in infinite configurations zipping, unnervingly lifelike, up every monitor.

Then just as abruptly as it came on, the code blinked out. The screens turned orange, then blue. Still riveted to his seat, the Prime Minister stared at the words dissolving onto every screen in the session hall, their blue-and-white light casting the glow of an extraterrestrial morning into the dim theatre.

_Death to Maria. Death to Sina._

The whole ordeal lasted but five minutes. Five minutes that culminated in the ominous message disappearing without a trace. The lights came back on like nothing had ever happened, but every single affected computer had been wiped clean of data.

People, ever resilient, laughed the matter off as they stumbled into the marble lobby of the Parliamentary Building. It was just a prank, they all told themselves. Morning session was postponed anyway until after the lunch break. When it resumed, the Aid Bill was immediately bumped up for priority consideration. 

And quietly, peacefully, almost with a sort of relief, Parliament approved what came to be known as the Marian Anti-Terror Aid Law on a landslide vote.

\---

Later, early in the evening, while you and your colleagues watched a rerun of the moment the Aid Bill was passed, Reiner called. Excusing yourself from plans for a celebratory dinner drink, you slipped into your own office and took the call.

“Congratulations,” he sneered. “Perfect last touch, if a bit childish.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

A snort. “Sure you do. Third Vote’s passed. Time to get dirty.”

“I already told Nile to fuck off. That goes for you, too.”

He tsk’ed. “Forgetting the veto window, are we?” When you said nothing, “We’re sore losers like that. You don’t come and let us vent, we just might junk all your hard work.”

“The people will come after your heads!”

“Not as much as Historia will be after your precious Levi’s for failing to see this whole thing through. Am I right?”

“Fuck you to hell, Reiner.”

He chuckled. “I’d fuck you a dozen times over. Now. Should we expect you, or should we start setting up an overnighter with our legal team?”

You grit your teeth. “I’ll be there.”

“Good,” he said, unnervingly breezy. “Be on the way now. Ambassador’s Room. Fucking finally.”

The line went dead. A foreboding shiver slithered down your spine. Steeling yourself, you rejoined your colleagues who, in their dress shirts and suits, had unanimously voted to have a chicken-pizza-all-the-booze night.

You waved them away regretfully. “Sorry guys, but I’ve just been called away…”

Eren groaned, his usual overdramatic self. “Again? I thought for sure you’d be able to make it this time!”

“Me too, Eren,” you sighed. “I really am sorry. Shall I make it up to you some other time?”

Curious Mina sidled up. “It’s Levi, isn’t it?” she stage whispered to the backdrop of Mikasa rolling her eyes at who she loved to refer to as her stick-up-the-ass cousin. But none of Mikasa’s derisive remarks ever deterred Mina from dreaming up a passionate office romance between you and your superior.

“You’ve been called away to be with him!”

“It’s a business call,” you insisted. And catching Armin’s watchful eye added, “Something like that.”

Mina squealed in giddy joy. Armin didn’t look as certain.

You left it at that. As it is, this abrupt summons already painted a bad taste in your mouth. If Levi ever called looking for you, at the very least, Armin might be able to point him in the right direction.

\---

Reiner announced your arrival, divesting you of your coat the moment you walked in. Off to one side, Nile Dawk scrutinized a Van Gogh miniature as he smoked. Bertholdt Hoover occupied Levi’s favourite armchair. 

Without looking your way, Nile dragged a puff from his cigarette and blew out, “Didn’t Reiner tell you to arrive naked?”

In response, Reiner unzipped your dress and peeled it off so you were standing only in your underwear. Bertholdt snickered. Nile finally cast a glance your way, mouth curling.

“Pink lace? How sweet. She thinks it’s going to be a romantic evening.” Venom dripped from his words. He prowled towards you, waving the lighted butt of his cigarette mere centimeters from your skin. Just when you thought he was going to put it out on you, Nile smacked you across the face so hard your ears rang.

“An eye for an eye. That’s the way of the world, isn’t it?” He flicked ash off his cigarette. You shrank away from the smouldering sparks. With another wave of his hand, Reiner stripped you of the last of your clothes and forced you to your knees in front of Bertholdt.

“He’s our guest tonight,” Reiner said. “Treat him well.”

Bertholdt’s eyes were heavy with desire. He skimmed fingertips down your arms, took your hands in his, and laid them flat on his lap. A belt buckle jingled behind you.

“Be good and it’ll be over soon,” he cooed, stroking your hands, your wrists, sending a wave of nauseating dread over your body. Plucking your panties from where Reiner discarded your clothes in a heap beside him, Bertholdt crumpled your underwear into a ball and fed it into your mouth. 

“You’ll thank me for it.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than Nile whipped you with his belt. Leather snapped against bare skin. You yelped, nails digging into the fabric of Bertholdt’s trousers. His hands closed like iron cuffs around your upper arms, immobilising you. 

Nile flogged you to breaking point, each blow to your lower back, bottom, and the tops of your thighs dealt with feverish vengeance. Tears streamed down your cheeks. You alternately cried and screamed, burbling pleas muffled by the lacy fabric clenched between your teeth.

When Nile had had enough, your skin was an inferno of pain.

“There, there,” Bertholdt soothed, expression one of distaste as he plucked the makeshift gag from your mouth. It dangled from his fingertips. He waggled it. “Disgusting. You drooled all over it.”

You were incoherent, nearly choking yourself with hiccupping cries, mind muffled in a halo of agony. Bertholt dragged you up with himself as he stood, walked you to the middle of the room, and dropped you on the carpet. 

Nile’s cigarette had burnt out. Through half-lidded eyes, you saw his shoes cross to the minibar at the corner.

Bertholdt nudged your legs apart, propped a cushion under your hips, and leaned over to whisper behind you, “His Excellency’s letting me have you first tonight. Isn’t that nice of him?”

He returned with the ice bucket. In another moment, freezing cold skimmed over your flaming skin. You shuddered. Up and down the ice cube skittered. Soothing. You were letting yourself get comfortable, quelling your snivelling, when, without preamble, Bertholdt shoved a modestly-sized piece up between your legs, quickly followed by and held in place with the blunt end of a pair of ice tongs.

The scream stuck in your throat. Your body jerked convulsively, sweat breaking out over your forehead as the cold cramped your lower back and twisted your gut into a knot. Stuttering gasps, you bucked against the large hands holding you down, keeping you from wriggling free of the discomfort of being forced open by the icy metal.

“Behave yourself.” Bertholdt’s breaths puffed onto your sweat-drenched back. You shuddered, mewled, and pleaded, the words lost, replaced by the garbled gibberish of panic and fear.

The ice was melting fast, coming in humiliating rivulets down your legs. Bertholdt mounted you, nudging the tongs higher up, twisting them -

He spread your ass and thrust inside. Your scream finally broke loose. He was a fire that split you open, burning into your hips, igniting the ache in your back. Grappling fingers closed around bits of carpet, dug in, and slipped as Bertholdt fucked you raw.

The world tilted into a chasm of distended sound and sensation - your desperate shrieks, which never seemed to stop, punctuated by Reiner’s bawdy comments, and the warm wetness as Bertholdt emptied himself inside you. 

You were all screamed out, your throat raw and your body limp and sore. He pulled out, released your hips, and let you drop back to the carpet. The dastardly tongs, slick and pink-stained, had mercifully dislodged themselves somewhere between snippets of “I’ve never taken you for an ass man, Bertl!”, unforgiving laughter, the waft of cigarette smoke, and the haze of a barely-there consciousness.

Nile’s voice floated over to you. “You may have her next, Reiner. But save her ass for me.”

A heavy boot toed you over to your back. You flopped like a rag doll, chest heaving, barely understanding the words breathed into your face. Reiner patted your injured cheek, and you just about mustered a groan.

“Stay up, doll. It’s no fun with an unconscious woman. I want you to tighten up for me.” He pumped you with three rough fingers, keeping up a conversation that was mostly a string of lewd complaints. When he decided that you were sufficiently wet, he hitched your ankles onto his shoulders and squeezed himself inside, at once beginning a relentless, bruising pace.

“Is this the way you get your work done?”

“Where was that feistiness last week?” He smacked your breasts in an attempt to get any reaction out of you.

“Kinky little slut. Pain gets you off, doesn’t it?”

Nothing. Your head lolled, eyes glassy, body completely limp.

Reiner was growing frustrated. Nile finished his fourth stick and got up. This time, he undid his zipper and shuffled out of his office clothes.

“Up, Reiner.”

Understanding gleamed in the younger man’s eyes. Burying himself deep, he scooped you up and stood. 

“Hold on tight, love.”

Reiner balanced you against his chest, legs hooked over his arms as he supported you by your bottom, spreading you open. Nile pressed in from behind you. You didn’t need to be fully conscious to understand. 

“No,” you croaked, forcibly rousing yourself, beginning to thrash in anticipation of pain. Reiner held you fast. “No, no, no. Please, no. Anything but that - umpf!”

Nile clamped a hand over your mouth. “Shut up, bitch.”

You felt the tip of him push against your entrance. 

What little tears you had left squeezed out of your tightly shut eyes. 

Reiner pulled nearly all the way out, gripped your hips, and in one sudden motion impaled you on both of their cocks. Indescribable pain spasmed through your body. You choked on the sob burbling from your throat. No longer hearing or recognizing your own voice, you slumped against Reiner as the men jackhammered into your battered body.

“Wanted to make a fool of me in my own Parliament, did you?”

Every thrust hurt unspeakably. Your mouth panted open only to shut against fabric and skin, in your agony scratching lines into Reiner’s arms, biting into his clothed shoulder. You tasted blood in your mouth. Yours or his, you couldn’t tell. You couldn’t know. He didn’t care anyway.

Nile cursed you as he fucked you, threatening to kill you after all this, to send you to the hospital, to destroy your career.

You sobbed, clenching your fists because if you had bitten your tongue, it would have come off by now. The seconds trickled interminably until finally, Reiner grunted, coming mid-thrust, sending semen cascading onto the carpet. Nile pulled you back against himself, jammed his fingers where Reiner had just withdrawn, and growled into your neck, “Tighten, damn it!”

Then in a few thrusts, he, too, pulsed hot inside you.

When they finally let you go, you simply folded up, crumpled into a heap on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story/Technical notes (these are based on what I know from procedures in my own country. will do my best to explain as much as I can):
> 
> *Why Eld's office is passcode instead of biometric access protected: Some time ago, I read this one Dan Brown book where the villain, to gain access to a fingerprint protected room, lopped off the finger of the pertinent authorised person and used that to break in. Didn't want to risk that happening to Eld.
> 
> *When Eld said that the information he found is not yet "official": meaning nothing's admissible in court yet if ever they decide to file charges against Grisha, because the information/evidence/documents were not obtained through above the table means, such as through a warrant or a valid warrantless search.
> 
> *Historia's attempts to eject politicized NGOs: some time back during the (relative) height of Russia-US bickering, I remember reading about Putin threatening to eject western lobby groups disguised as NGOs/humanitarian agencies for meddling too much in Russia's domestic affairs. I never really thought that charitable/humanitarian groups could be politically charged and thought this kind of perceived (?) betrayal (?)could be a natural (if not incendiary) motive for a young, staunchly nationalistic ruler like Historia to stir up relations with her country's closest (and most meddlesome) neighbour.
> 
> *SEC: Securities and Exchange Commission, the registrar and overseer of corporations and associations, whether for or not for profit. In my country, the SEC requires the filing of reports at least annually. These reports should disclose more or less full information about the corporation's key people and activities. The idea that Erwin catches on to here is that Grisha's been creating shell corporations (corporations in name but without any real activity) to take advantage of their special status as separate entities/persons. Behind the cover of these shell corporations, he and Pastor Nick could then transact under the radar, wiring funds, consigning weapons, etc. These shell corporations would exist only for one year to evade and avoid reportorial requirements.
> 
> *interlocking contracts - technically, contracts between corporations with interlocking director/s. This is prohibited if the corporation/s involved have a common director who has more than 20% shareholdings in both corporations. Here, as Eld hinted to Erwin, Grisha has 35% and a directorate seat in the Marian company, and owns (and is presumably also a director) the Jaeger Arms Company in Sina.
> 
> Rambling notes:
> 
> Finally got this out of my system. 
> 
> Spent way too much time googling this and watching *reference material* to see if this was doable (it is, but it hurts and it sucks) and if this amount of screaming can be realistic (yes).
> 
> Before this, I didn't realise smut could be so draining to write. I think I need a long lie down.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Papa Levi gets angry.

Just barely between the folds of the service curtain, the lens of a tiny camera swept over the scene, its handler standing breathless in the dark, his face flushed with the effort of remaining utterly still and impossibly silent in the damp humidity of the server’s lounge.

He had been standing there a while now, having taken up his position after serving the men in the Ambassador’s room. He had waited with them for their guest. When it turned out to be a woman, he knew instantly that this was the sort of content he was hired to obtain. He knew the woman; saw you frequently at the Club, in the company of the Ambassador. 

Always and only in the company of the Ambassador, although one wouldn’t know that now just by looking at you.

The spy watched the wide-angle picture captured by his camera. The service entrance and exit, positioned with the thought of maximum efficiency, turned out to provide the perfect vantage point from which to watch - and to film - the room and its occupants.

It was a violation of the rules, of course. The Club was frequented by its procession of prominent names because of its reputation for unrelenting, absolute, privacy. So far, until this clandestine recording session, there had been no breach of that policy of confidentiality.

The waiter behind the curtain only wanted to make a quick buck - and to serve the interest of his country, he was assured. He wasn’t interested in sticking around to find out how the Club dealt with indiscreet employees.

A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face. He attributed it to the stuffiness of his hiding place. 

Nothing was happening now. The men were just standing around, smoking and drinking in various states of undress. The woman - the Ambassador’s woman - lay unmoving at their feet, her pristine skin criss-crossed with mottling welts and bruises.

He let a breath trickle from his nostrils, adjusted himself a millimeter, and continued to film.

\---

Levi figured a celebratory drink was in order. You’d been cooped up at the office all day, monitoring the proceedings with Hange’s group of mischief-makers, and strung tense with anxiety over the vote all week. 

Except for clunking Erwin Smith and his dopey smile, who insisted on inviting themselves along, it would be just what you needed.

“It’s the weekend, Levi,” the bigger man whined, beaming sunnily when the said Levi cast him a dark glare. “Lighten up and have a drink with old Erwin.”

As embarrassing as the big lunk was being, Levi was cajoled into letting him tag along. He phoned you but you didn’t pick up. Figuring that maybe the brats - as he lovingly referred to the mismatched collection of rowdiness that was his staff - had dragged you along to their celebrations, he called the most sensible of them all.

Armin picked up. Over the line, Levi heard merry shouts, general disorder, the clatter of shot glasses, and shuffling sounds as the boy moved away from the noise.

“Sorry about that, sir.”

Levi repeated his question. Were you with them? Could Armin put you through?

His request was met with a beat of silence. Then, “Isn’t she with you?”

Dread settled like a brick in the pit of Levi’s stomach.

“She said she was suddenly called away,” Armin continued. “We assumed she was going to meet you.” A pause. “Wasn’t she?”

The uncertain tone made his innards churn. Levi cleared his throat. “Oh, yes. We were supposed to meet. Something came up and I forgot.” He didn’t even bother to sound convincing. Armin’s next question was coloured with concern.

“Will you be able to find her?”

“Sure. Brat’s running late, is all. Thanks.” He couldn’t bear further conversation and clicked off. 

Erwin already caught on. “What is it?”

“Trouble.” When Armin said ‘we assumed she was going to meet you’ and ‘suddenly called away’, only one place, and one person, came to Levi’s mind. He bolted to his car, Erwin at his heels, and drove uptown like a madman.

\---

Clouds of smoke settled in the room. The men, having had their fill of drinks and cigarettes, were in a considerably lighter mood.

“That hit the spot, didn’t it?” they chortled at each other. “I’m stress-free! And no longer angry!”

“Gets you ready for the veto vigil.”

Feet tramped across the floor. Chattering figures gathered clothes, checked mobile phones. The last two words of that conversation whirred around what little was left of your consciousness: veto vigil. From deep down somewhere, your shattered mind conjured images of a great meeting, of victorious cheers, and the odd, drifting thought -  _ “Prime Minister’s twenty-four hour veto period” _ \- which awakened a sense of incompleteness. 

Mentally, you felt for your limbs, found them, and gleaned the strength to at first twitch, then to rise up on an elbow. Dishevelled hair hung in knots about your face. You dragged yourself as upright as you could, ignoring the protest of your abused body, pushed back your hair, and wiped your cheeks. They were sticky with dried tears and spit.

“Oh, hey!”

You lifted your head. The men were partially clothed, in the middle of putting their suits back on.

“You survived!” Reiner crouched inches away, surveying the mess they made of you. He grasped your chin. The cheek that Nile struck was beginning to feel tender, and your cheekbone throbbed with what you were certain was a developing black eye. He turned your face towards Bertholdt. 

“What did I tell you? Mighty good lay, wasn’t she? Grade-A screamer.”

Bertholdt smiled thinly, tie hanging undone around his neck. “Wouldn’t mind another go myself.”

You swallowed. His gaze, heavy-lidded and hazy with desire, prowled over you. You stared back. “I’d like that.” Your voice was no more than a whisper.

Reiner laughed. Even Nile Dawk sneered.

“We just might break you.”

“I’d like that,” you repeated, pulling yourself up on quavering knees, never looking away from Bertholdt. His shirt was untucked and trousers still unfastened. With herculean effort, you crawled towards him, pawed at his legs, and unclothed his cock.

“Stay,” you breathed through the tremor in your voice. “There’s time. I want more.”

From across the room, Nile huffed. “What the hell. Bitch wants a beating. Take her, Hoover. Fuck her dead. I’ve twenty-four hours to veto and I intend to do it at the last minute. We’ve time.”

That was invitation enough. Reiner was already undoing the buttons of his shirt. “Don’t mind if I join you.”

The pair of them hauled you to the sofa. Bertholdt had you straddle him, kneeling with your back to him, legs on either side of his thighs. Holding you by the wrists pinned together behind your back, he traced the length of your spine, chuckling at your shudders when he brushed the fresh belt marks.

Reiner came up in front of you, erect cock swinging. Taking your face with both his hands, he bent you down at the waist, groaning as he pushed past open lips and thrust steadily into your mouth.

Bertholdt took his time examining your welts, shifting your wrists uncomfortably higher up your back to better see the raised, angry marks. He passed open palms over them, following them across your bottom and around your thighs until his hand finally settled on your cunt.

You tensed, anticipating the sudden violence he seemed to like, but Bertholdt dawdled this time, rubbing you almost sensuously, teasing you wet before pushing in two, three, and now four slick fingers, scissoring gently until he coaxed a cock-muffled moan from your throat.

He guided himself inside you, pushing against the resistance of your engorged sex until he had sheathed himself to the hilt. You whined, squirming against the fullness, shivering at his body heat as he leaned towards you to press breathy kisses between your shoulder blades. 

While Bertholdt nipped new marks, Reiner raked his fingers along your scalp, tugging your hair to redirect your attention, winding it around his fist as he guided your head to take his cock, eyes shut against the moist, warm pleasure of your mouth around his prick.

Below you, Bertholdt rocked up, hips touching base at the seam of your legs. You groaned, shifting with him as he slouched down his seat, forcing you to spread your legs so wide your muscles protested. Having bared you open, he stroked at your ass as he fucked you, now prodding, now breaching you with the tip of a thumb.

You protested around Reiner’s cock, managing to squirm in objection before the big blonde growled and slammed his hips into your face. Your jaw twinged; eyes watered as the tip of him danced into your throat. You recoiled with a gag.

“Did I tell you to stop? Keep sucking.”

Bertholdt chuckled at your distress. His finger penetrated deeper, pumping through your whining objections. “No?” he murmured against your back.

You shook your head as best as you could and gurgled, “No,” but your traitorous body clenched.

“I don’t think so,” he laughed. The grinding motions of his cock turned into sharp thrusting as he pierced you in time with the fingers - now a pair of fingers - up your bum. With Reiner enthusiastically milking himself with your mouth, it was all you could do to keen against Bertholdt’s scraping assault. 

“Hey, use your tongue.”

Already struggling to relax your jaw, you did what you could, flattening your tongue against the underside of Reiner’s cock as he rocked into your mouth. Despite your best efforts, your teeth raked over him. Reiner cussed, his fists tightening around your hair. Neck and chest flushed, he stared down at you, watching with a feral hunger as you struggled to breathe around his dick.

“Ready babe?”

Your eyes widened. Reiner throbbed as he slid along your tongue. His brows were drawn; teeth bared. You wriggled against Bertholdt’s unrelenting grip, back arching as you bucked to free yourself. If he could, Reiner would drown you in cum.  _ Fuck her to death _ , Nile said. You had no doubt his right hand would do just that.

Reiner came just as Bertholdt dragged you upright, his fingers squeezing at your trachea. Reiner slipped clean out of your mouth, his cum spewing on your chin; splattering across your chest.

“Fuck.”

Bertholdt continued to ram into you while Reiner busied himself with your breasts, groping, pinching, suckling. You threw your head back, surrendering to Bertholdt, gulping what shallow gasps of air he allowed you. 

Everything hurt. 

Your head spun. 

Reiner licked down your stomach, found your clitoris, and bit hard enough to sting.

You convulsed. Or you supposed you convulsed. After that final shudder of overenthusiastic stimulation, nothing was certain anymore. Your body no longer seemed like your own. Except for the fierce command to keep going, even your consciousness no longer felt familiar. 

_ They still have plenty of time _ , whirled round and round like a rondo inside your head. The men were still going. Completely boneless, you let them flip you around, let them share you anew however they pleased. You took care only to feed the little grounding voice inside your head.

_ Stay awake. Keep up. _

\---

Levi could not drive fast enough. The embassy towncar gunned through traffic, weaving so recklessly even Erwin, in his four-wheel drive, struggled to keep up. 

The evening’s light mood dissipated immediately after that phone call with Armin. Levi’s grudging mirth gave way to worry, which morphed into panic, and then into blind rage. Ignoring all of Erwin’s questions, the young diplomat had sped off, leaving Erwin to follow.

As expensive homes gave way to luxury hotels and bars along their route, Erwin began to understand. You were at the Club, perhaps at the Ambassador’s Room, without the Ambassador.

Levi screeched around a corner, coasted down the long block, and ground to a halt directly in front of the Club. Erwin followed suit, tossing his car keys to a second valet, and hurried in after Levi.

A suited host intercepted them, cutting off Levi’s rampage towards the private lounges. “I’m afraid Room 49 is occupied, sir. But if you would be so minded, there are other rooms -”

Levi shot the old steward a glare so baleful the words died in the man’s mouth. Mellow jazz waltzed in the background. Under his breath, Levi snarled,

“Nile Dawk is here.”

The host said nothing, but the miniscule widening of his eyes was enough. Levi stalked forward. The other man shrank back.

“That motherfucker has my girl,” Levi growled. “That son of a bitch is  _ raping _ my girl and if you don’t let me put a stop to it right now, I will tear this goddamn place down!”

The old man gasped. His gaze flickered to Erwin, pleading for reason, for someone sane to please help him uphold the _ rules of this establishment. _

“Let us through,” Erwin murmured.

Repressing a shudder, the host at last acquiesced. “All right, gentlemen,” he stammered, arms flailing uselessly as he retreated further and further from them. “Only please be discreet. I’m sure you know -”

Levi had already gone. Pressing several thousand-Thaler bills into the man’s hands, Erwin similarly took off.

As expected, Room 49 was locked. Levi rattled the handle and shouted abuse. He was about to begin pounding on the door when an attendant scurried out of the nearby server’s entrance. Levi shoved him backwards, the lot of them stumbling as he and Erwin invaded the Ambassador’s Room. They thundered across the attendant’s area, throwing back its heavy, dividing curtain just as a strangled wail erupted from the room.

Reiner Braun was crushing you into the sofa, his hands merciless around your neck, teeth bared in lust as he ejaculated between your legs.

Howling fury, Levi flew at the larger man, tearing him from you to land a fist square in his jaw. Reiner grunted, gingerly touching his face. Levi loomed above him, fists clenched, and glowered at Nile Dawk and Bertholdt Hoover, who were only just beginning to dress themselves again.

“Upset, Levi?” Nile had the gall to crow. In the space of a few hours, he had the Ambassador’s Room reeking of sex and cigarettes, littered with empty bottles of premium liquor. Body fluids stained the rugs, and cushions were strewn all over the place. The remains of a smashed crystal wine glass glittered under an end table.

Levi breathed murder. “I’ll feed you your dicks,” he swore.

Nile chuckled. “Save it for your girl. She likes it more-”

Levi drove into him, fists at the Prime Minister’s collar as he slammed Nile Dawk into a wall.

“Levi.” Panic now laced the latter’s tone. His adversary, who looked like a demon incarnate, was attempting to collapse his throat with the sheer force of his fists. “Let’s talk like reasonable people -” he squeaked.

Nile’s eyes darted over Levi’s shoulder, and then he was flying, thrown across the room into Reiner, who crashed into a set of empty Hennesy bottles. Glass pieces sprayed across the carpet, showering the Glock that Reiner had been attempting to draw. The weapon now skittered across the floor. 

Levi picked it up, hefted it experimentally, and waved Bertholdt towards the tangle of Nile and Reiner. “Sit with those shits.”

Bertholt slunk over to his fallen companions, picked a clean square of carpet, and obeyed. 

“You.” Levi addressed the shrinking, pale-faced attendant. “Clean up this mess. It’s revolting.” As the poor boy - Marlowe on his nametag - hurried away, Levi sank into his favourite armchair, settled one ankle over the other knee, and laid the Glock across his lap. He glanced at the sofa where Erwin had wrapped you in his own coat, the shreds of your discarded clothes gathered in a bundle under his arm. 

He watched Erwin usher you away, his gaze lingering on your dirtied face and stumbling gait. Then he turned back to his grumbling captives.

“Settle down, bastards. We’ll be here until tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, digestible chapter. Levi gets lots of screentime here, because the next chapter (suuuper long to make up for this one) is Erwin's.
> 
> This chapter was brought to you by K, who keeps guessing the details of the next smut scene, and who keeps me going via Tumblr. She is the smut consultant everybody needs. Thank you.
> 
> Also. Anyone else hot for Levi getting in touch with his thug side?
> 
> I am going to catch up on my sleep now.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter to date???

You stared at the car door Erwin held open for you, clutching the borrowed coat closer around yourself. The Club’s basement parking was empty, yet Erwin hovered, shielding you out of sight.

Now he scanned the dimly-lit underground chambers and peered into his car.

“What’s the matter?”

His seats were a creamy white leather. The interior was spotless. You were sticky, dishevelled, and disgusting, sporting the mingled stains of body fluids and crusted liquor on your skin. And you were barefoot. Erwin had deemed your usual high heels more harm than good in your state, and kept them in his hand, out of your way.

You burrowed into the lapels of the rich wool coat. “I’ll get everything dirty.”

Everything about him softened at once. “No, you won’t.” He spoke just above a murmur. “Hypothetically,” with a tiny, swallowed smile, “even if you did, I don’t care. I just wish to get you home safe.”

Fingertips fluttered on the small of your back. Tentative. Feather-light.

You relented and let him shut you into the car. 

The drive to his place was quiet. He kept his eyes on the road while you stared out the heavily-tinted passenger’s side window. Occasionally, your gaze would roam, inevitably settling on the pitiful bundle of clothes on his lap. He’d smile when he caught your eye. You always looked away, ashamed.

He wasn’t supposed to see you in such a state.

All the way up to his unit, he talked like you were there for a friendly visit, thinking out loud about what to make for dinner, musing about whether he’d gone grocery-shopping lately, and asking your opinion about mushrooms.

You stared at him, thoroughly bewildered.

He laughed and let the two of you into his apartment. Could he get you anything? A drink of water? A change of clothes? - Oh, of course. How scatter-brained of him. You needed pyjamas for the night! -

“Erwin?”

He looked over his shoulder, over-easy smile plastered on his face. You tried not to squirm.

“Could I - Could I shower, please?”

His shoulders sagged as whatever tension had been keeping him rigidly upright finally unraveled. He turned fully towards you, expression so understanding it physically hurt. 

“Certainly. Is there anything else you need? Anything at all you want?”

You shook your head.

He nodded towards his master bath. “I’ll leave out a change of clothes.”

You waited before he stopped pottering about the adjacent walk-in closet before stepping into the shower. Turning the water to the hottest setting you could tolerate, you scrubbed yourself over and over and over, weeping under the steaming spray.

From where he sat on the edge of his bed halfway across the room, beyond the locked walk-in closet and master bath beyond, Erwin heard your muffled sobs as they drowned under the shower. The staggering sounds rang in his mind and flooded his ears until he could hear nothing but.

He got up and made for the door, twisting the lock before pulling it shut behind himself. Out here, in the hall, the extra space finally silenced the tunes of your misery.

He thumbed his phone. Scrolled over to Eld Jinn’s contact and hit ‘call’. The collaboration with the Justice Department needed to happen at once. Grisha Jaeger - and Nile Dawk, by extension - had to be taken down before Monday.

\---

Marlowe Freudenberg. College kid. Maybe geek. Part-time Room 49 attendant at the Gentlemen’s Club. 

He snorted at that last thought as Levi’s cold eyes suddenly flashed through his most recent memories. He begged to differ. Their guests were anything but.

Tiny camera already turned off and stuffed down his shirt, Marlowe scurried quietly, picking up the litter the Prime Minister and his gang left strewn all over the Ambassador’s Room. Now all three buggers were as close to huddled together as dignity allowed, the Ambassador himself keeping watch over them. 

If he were Levi, Marlowe thought to himself, he would have shot them all dead on the spot. If it was his girl Nile Dawk and his company abused. 

But as it was, Levi did not mention the woman. He barely even spoke as Marlowe worked, wiping and vacuuming and straightening. Nevertheless, those steely eyes roved over everything, seeing every spot, every scratch, and every strand of hair, committing to memory the evidences of the bastardisation of those he held dear.

Nile Dawk and Reiner Braun sat cross-legged on the carpet, tamed. They glistened with shards of glass which they dusted off themselves. Levi scowled at the sight.

“You,” he called to Marlowe over the hum of the latter’s vacuum cleaner, glaring at the speckles of glass sprinkling to the floor, “work on these shits, too.”

Nile returned his dirty look and warned, “Don’t push your weight around too much, Levi.”

“Shut the fuck up,” came the bored response. “I’m the one with the gun.”

“It’s mine,” Reiner grumbled.

The perpetually unimpressed look slid over to him. “If you’ll catch it with that hollow mug, I’ll gladly return a bullet.”

Reiner closed his mouth and looked away. Tactfully, Marlowe waited a couple of beats before handing the men damp towels. Reiner made a face as the memory of tossing you a packet of wet tissues welled up in his mind.

“You’re not really keeping us here all day, are you?” he growled.

“Wait and see.” Levi made himself more comfortable. Eyeing his prisoners with malicious glee, he called over the top of their heads, “You, brat.”

Marlowe silenced the vacuum cleaner.

“When you’re done, get me my usual. This is going to be a long night.”

Marlowe didn’t dare argue. He couldn’t even muster the guts to tell Levi that actually, his shift was ending and the Club closed at two in the morning so no, it wasn’t going to be a long night. Instead, he ducked his head yes and swept and scrubbed like his life depended on it because, as had been drilled into him by the jumpy old steward outside, this little diplomatic fiend could turn night into day if he willed it, and none of them wanted to stick around to see exactly how.

When he had cleaned everything but the lingering smell of stale tobacco smoke, Marlowe returned with Levi’s usual - scotch on the rocks. He couldn’t, however, help giving the ice bucket a funny look.

“What,” Levi intoned, ever perceptive, “is wrong with the ice?”

The prisoners fidgeted. Marlowe crimsoned up to his ears. “N-Nothing…” Not the fresh one he set down beside Levi’s drink, anyway.

“Something these fuckers did?”

Bertholdt’s shoulders tensed; his head dipped just the tiniest bit. 

“You got something to confess, Hoover?”

Bertholdt didn’t even dare to twitch. 

Levi gestured at Marlowe. “Tell me.”

Nile’s head shot up, face splotched with fury. “You talk,” he hissed, “and I’ll have the manager skin you alive.”

The boy gulped.

Levi clicked his tongue. “Nile Dawk, you dumb fuck of an old goat. I’m going to learn all the details anyway when we prepare to sue for rape. I might as well hear them now. You know what they say: sooner’s less shitty than later.”

Nile spluttered. Reiner and Bertholdt exchanged nervous glances.

“Well?” Levi prompted. Marlowe hesitated, swallowed half his words, and told Levi exactly how Bertholdt put the ice bucket to use on you. The hero of the narrative clenched his jaw.

“I suppose you saw it all.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You watched every little thing these kinky perverts did from behind your curtain, didn’t you?”

Marlowe was beginning to say yes when he realised the change in Levi’s tone. He backtracked helplessly, pinned under the Ambassador’s baleful glare, desperately wishing he could leave.

“I - I couldn’t help it,” he blurted out, the words tumbling one over another in his agitation. “I mean, I had to watch them!”

Levi appraised him. Then in a low, warning tone, “I don’t suppose you were dumb enough to film them?”

Instantly, four pairs of eyes, all of which belonged to extremely influential people, flashed at him. Cold sweat dripped down Marlowe’s stomach, forking around the edges of the ultra slim camcorder nestled just above his belt, cradled in the folds of his tucked dress shirt.

“No, sir.” A hoarse whisper.

“Good,” Levi drawled. “Because if I find that on any porn site, I will come after your sorry head.”

Marlowe nodded so fast and so vehemently he thought said sorry head would pop off.

“You may go. We’re down for the night.”

He booked it out of there. Clattering straight to the lockers, Marlowe grabbed his things and without bothering to change out his standard-issue button down and slacks, dashed out of the Club.

It was only when he’d boarded the bus back to his university belt apartment that he began to shake off the crawling sensation of Levi’s aura from his skin. Suppressing a shudder, he reached through his coat into his shirt, retrieved the camcorder, and forwarded the video to his second employer.

Then, still hunkered down in his back-of-the-bus corner, he deleted the footage, wiped the camcorder memory clean, and tried to calm his racing pulse.

The video wasn’t going to be on any porn site. He was sure of that. This boss sounded decent. Serious. He assured Marlowe that the fruits of his labour would be put to good use for the betterment of Sina.

Marlowe suddenly found himself hoping - rather belatedly - that that blasted sex tape, too, would do him some good.

\---

You wandered through Erwin’s apartment and found him in the kitchen, carrot in one hand and spring onions in another. He beamed at you, casting a wide, sunny smile above a pink-and-yellow apron.

The colour -  _ How sweet. She thinks it’s going to be a romantic evening!  _ \- made you feel sick to your stomach.

“I hope you like chicken,” he prattled, completely unfazed by the unholy clatter of his pots and pans. He seemed to have emptied his shelves in this singular instance of cooking. “- not the world’s best cook, but at least we won’t go hungry. And hot chocolate!”

Mad frenzy seasoned his motions. The microwave oven pinged. A knife thudded on to the board with sharp, jarring bursts. The deep, clinging smell of semi-cooked, half-frozen poultry sailed into the air. 

“...would offer you tea, but I don’t have any. Levi thinks it’s barbaric -” He smiled at you. A saucepan lid slid off the counter, and crashed onto the tile floor.

You jumped, hands flying up to your ears as you stumbled backwards.

Erwin froze. At his feet, the offending implement twirled round and round, gradually slowing until the clang of metal finally vibrated into silence.

Slowly, behind the too-long sleeves of your borrowed hoodie, your world refocused in the muffled silence. You blinked through the clumps of wet hair squashed into your cheeks. Embarrassed self-consciousness surged through you. It was enough to make you rip your hands to your sides.

“I...uh...couldn’t find my phone.”

Erwin still hadn’t moved. “It’s on the coffee table,” he said, enunciating every word, “with your other...belongings.” 

Remains of your clothes, the scattered contents of your pockets. Things he wished he could shove into a box and bury for all eternity.

You murmured your thanks. Catching his look, you added, piqued, “It’s fine. No need to tiptoe around me. I’m all right.”

“Take it slowly,” he urged. “That’s all I’m saying.”

You whirled away, fists clenched inside the grey sleeves of his hoodie. A nagging compulsion inside made you itch to take it off. You didn’t need this kind of charity. The fabric made your skin crawl. The overwhelming smell of Erwin suffocated you; made you wish the nails digging into your palms were clawing trenches up and down your arms instead.

Like what you did to Reiner. Scratched him so hard you drew blood. You knew because you picked it out from under your fingernails while you were in the shower.

Your nail beds throbbed now.

“I’m fine,” you griped through clenched teeth. “I’ve had worse.” But even as you spoke, the voice inside your head taunted you.  _ Have you, really? _

“I walked into it,” you insisted. “Reiner called. I could have refused. But I walked into it. I went to them.  _ For business _ . To stop the veto. I asked for more…” You trailed off, drew a breath, and in a smaller voice added, “You don’t have to feel sorry for me.”

_ Because you think you don’t deserve it. _

You growled. That nasty voice had you raring for a fight. Something big and nasty. Something like a senseless, violent catfight where you had every excuse to scream and flail and maim your opponent.

“I don’t,” Erwin agreed, his calm tones and forced domesticity slicing through your thoughts; churning up the turmoil in your mind. “But won’t you sit down? I’d appreciate the company -”

“And if I won’t?” you spat thoughtlessly. Your mouth felt driven by the need to make trouble for yourself. For some inexplicable reason, you wanted to pick a fight with Erwin. Make him angry. Taunt him into shouting at you. Hitting you, maybe. 

“What’ll you do? Punish me?” You goaded. Even the thought of sitting down made your body ache. “Will you whip me if I refuse?” your voice trembled in your throat. “Spank me for being unruly?”

“Is that what Nile did to you?” He lamented in tones tinged with the promise of retribution.

Your arms crossed over your chest, and you hunched, shrilling, “I don’t have to tell you!”

But it came out as a pitiful, terrified whisper.

Erwin let a beat pass. Then he shuffled to you, slippered feet sliding across the tile. You held your breath. Clutched yourself harder and closed your eyes. If you didn’t see him, you didn’t have to acknowledge his presence.

“Show me.”

You curled tighter, forcing yourself into the smallest possible ball. Erwin’s steps halted a foot away behind you. Every inch of your body tingled in awful anticipation of his touch. If he reached for you, you wouldn’t know how to react. You never rehearsed this bit. This sort of thing never happened between you and...business associates.

“Show me. Please?” His voice was soft.

Against the orders of your screaming mind, your body unclenched itself. Operating purely on the learned reflex to a plea, as if already anticipating a reward in exchange for compliance, your hands dropped their protective hold. Your back straightened, just as if you were in heels in the middle of a negotiation, and your voice lightened, just as if this were any other request for a favour.

By now, after years of training yourself to relax in the face of panic, your body’s reaction was second nature. It was fright that pulled your shoulders confidently - falsely - taut.

“And then what?” you said, even managing a hum. You still weren’t looking at him. “What do you want in exchange for your kindness?”

Without warning, a pair of hands came down on your shoulders. You started, belatedly hearing your panicked little squeal and the sob-breaths heaving from your chest as you grappled with the fright. Erwin spun you around to face himself.

“You’re not all right.” He looked you straight in the eyes, everything about him swelling with vengeful kindness. His grip loosened and fell away when it seemed like you would begin hyperventilating and he slid a couple of steps back.

“Will you let me help you?” he coaxed. “Or would you rather go to the emergency room?”

Neither. You wanted neither. 

You shook your head and forced yourself to calm down. The shot of alarm from his unexpected touch was abating, taking with it all the fight left in your system. You drooped, defeated, suddenly craving the familiarity of the old routine, longing for the hard love-making you used to get even after brutal missions.

You looked past Erwin around the room. Lost. Disoriented. “Where’s Levi?”

“Still at the Club.” Erwin was wound tight; tense from the effort of restraining himself from springing forward and just grabbing you; shielding you from the world.

“The Club,” you repeated. The implication of the words, and the words themselves, slithered from your grasp.

“Yes.” He forced himself to keep an open, soothing, grounding expression. Just as if he was talking to a forgetful child. “Levi will be at the Club until tomorrow night. In the meantime, he entrusted you to me.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Entrusted?”

He took an experimental step forward. You seized up, but did not flinch. “Yes. He trusted me to take care of you.”

You seemed to be staring through him as you thought his words over. Looked as if through his relative invisibility, you saw and were confirming everything with Levi. 

“Take care of me...like he would?”

Erwin nodded much too hastily. “Yes. Will you let me help you?”

You blinked slowly, mouth falling open. Searching gaze zeroed in on him; refocused. You nodded. “Okay.” Before he could react, you lifted his hoodie clear off yourself and stepped towards him. You had to tiptoe to wind your arms around his neck, and you pressed your nakedness against him as you captured his mouth with yours.

Erwin stumbled back, eyes wide, unable to reciprocate the sloppy, licking kisses planted over his mouth and chin. Tilting his head, he managed to free himself, whereupon he gently, but firmly, pushed you away by the waist.

You dropped to the soles of your feet, still reaching up, still half-tangled around him. His mouth glistened. You stared at each other, sized up the other’s strange behaviour.

“That was not what I meant,” He finally managed to say, dragging the back of his hand across the lower half of his face.

“But you said ‘like Levi’.” Perplexed. “Levi always made love to me afterwards. To make me clean again. To make right everything that went wrong.”

Your words, said with so much innocence, stabbed Erwin right through the heart. “You can’t have sex now. Not after -”  _ That _ , he wanted to say, for lack of a better euphemism.

“Not sex,” you shook your head. “Sex is just currency. It doesn’t count. Levi, he…”

“Made love to you?” Erwin finished uncertainly. He wasn’t sure he understood, but you smiled a little for the first time so he let it be, stooping instead to pick up the discarded hoodie as he herded you into his bedroom.

“How about you let me make love to you in some other way?”

“How?” Suspicious.

He left you standing by the bed as he clattered around his medicine cabinet. In the floor-to-ceiling windows of his room, blackened by night and lighted by interior lamps into a mirror, you saw yourself shifting tentatively, even awkwardly as your bruised muscles protested. Erwin returned to find you examining your reflection, fitting palms over the prints on your stomach and hips, twisting around to visually digest the mess of black and blue and broken red welts on your back, buttocks, and thighs.

It looked far worse in the clear light. He thanked the powers that be that you hadn’t gotten it into your head to scrutinize yourself in front of a proper mirror.

“Pain killers.” He left a tablet on the nightstand. “If you need any.”

You eyed the collection of bottles and plastic packages in his hand. He tried to smile reassuringly, slightly perturbed by your unconcern over your nakedness around him.

“Let’s do something about those bruises, yes?” Now that he’d had a good, long look at them, his first instinct was to pack you up to the hospital. But the medical personnel were sure to want answers and the police would undoubtedly be called. Investigations would blow up, information would be leaked, and the whole thing would prematurely explode into a scandal.

It was a situation neither you nor Levi obviously wanted.

So he would do his best. Gesturing vaguely at the bed, “Make yourself comfortable.”

You eyed the sheets, faintly remembering it as the previous site of less innocent activities, and gingerly clambered on. His bed was as soft as you thought and you stretched out on your stomach like a puppy, the angry continents on your back side laid out for him to see.

Erwin talked as he worked, though saying nothing remotely like the things Reiner did. He briefed you on everything he was about to do, warning you before patting on the iodine, shushing your whimpering protests at its cool sting, and blowing on your fiery skin. Eventually, you settled down, dozing with your head resting on folded arms.

“Erwin?” you mumbled, inordinately relaxed.

“Yes?” His reply floated around in the darkness behind your eyes. You watched the word flitter, dream-like, before reaching out to catch it, holding on as it squirmed to free itself from your drowsy grasp.

“What shall I give you for this?”

He made a confused noise. You clarified,

“For your kindness. What do you want in exchange?”

“Nothing,” he murmured inscrutably. You wanted to see his expression but you were too comfortable to move, even if only to open your eyes. “You’re here. You’re safe now. It’s more than enough.”

“But everybody always wants something in exchange for their kindness.” Especially politicians. Erwin was an ex-diplomat and a politician. A double strike.

“Not from you.” He finished working on your back and shambled up beside your head, laying cool fingertips on the bruise blooming around your left eye and above your cheekbone. “Not anymore. Not ever again.”

You sighed, content, as he dabbed cold liquid onto your discoloured skin. He was saying something, apologising about what they’d done - about what he’d done, too - so very sorry about making you like this. 

His voice rumbled so pleasantly. You drifted off, lost to everything but the rocking comfort of his words.

The next time you woke, the apartment was dead silent. The curtains had been drawn across the massive windows and the lamp turned off. Only the hall light was left on. It spilled into the bedroom from the door left ajar.

You had fallen asleep right on top of the sheets, which were now folded in a cocoon around you. The bed was otherwise empty. Crawling out of your nest, you found the hoodie draped over yourself and put it on with a sense of wonder.

You thought you’d dreamt up the whole thing, offering Erwin something - sex, it was heavily hinted - and being turned down. Apparently, it was not a dream, because here you were, untouched; alone in his bed.

You wandered out into the living room. Blond hair poked out from one end of the couch. Drawing closer, you found him sprawled out on it, dress shirt and slacks traded for a tshirt and sweatpants. He slept with his arms folded over his stomach and exhaled quietly through his mouth. His open laptop, long gone dark, sat on the coffee table.

Kneeling beside him, you called his name. He was instantly awake, half rising, brows furrowing when he saw it was you.

“What is it?” Thick, sleep-laced voice asked. His throat was dry, voice a little raspy. It was the most comforting thing in the world. His hands cradled either side of your face. “Do you hurt? Tell me.”

You shook your head, unable to suppress your smile, and stroked the insides of his wrists as you retreated into his touch. “Come to bed.”

He frowned. “You need your rest.”

Your earlier, short sleep had cleared your mind enough to make you fully aware of the flutter pleasantly snaking down your spine. Made you lucid enough to realise that this tingling was because of Erwin.

“We both need to rest. Come to bed. Please?”

Pressing a kiss to your forehead, he rose without further ado, wrapped an arm around you, and bundled you both to his room. He flicked on the lamp and smoothed the sheets, which, your now saw, were dotted with iodine stains. You shrank back, discomfited, but Erwin didn’t even bat an eye. He simply turned down the duvet, tucked you in, switched off the lamp, and slipped in beside you.

“Sorry about the sheets.”

You crept towards him. He caught you, slinging a careful arm over your waist as he settled you under his chin. “What sheets?”

“These ones,” you whispered, embarrassed, practically breathing into his chest. “I got them dirty.”

He chuckled, the rumble vibrating pleasantly around your brain. “You didn’t. Don’t worry about it. Just rest.”

Sandwiched between him and the folds of the fluffy duvet, your legs tangled in his, your mind blissfully clear and finally silent, you were finally able to do just that.

\---

Three in the morning.

With the waning sounds of a party trailing after her, Hitch Dreyse sailed into Grisha Jaeger’s private study. The walnut wall panel slid seamlessly back into place behind her.

“Still hard at work?” she sang, dancing around his desk to perch on the arm of his great chair. The embellishments on her beaded dress swayed and tinkled when she moved. She peered over Grisha’s shoulder and burst in a peal of laughter.

“Porn!” Incredulous amusement. “You leave your dinner guests to me to hide out here to watch porn?”

Grisha smiled patiently; patted the leg on his armrest. “Not quite.” He rewound the clip. “Watch the people carefully.”

A few seconds into the clip, Hitch again rang out in merry giggles. “Nile Dawk!” she shrieked in delight. “How absolutely revolting! In front of his colleagues - oh, my god!”

“It was just sent in. I hired someone to get me something ruinous on Nile, and he delivered more.”

Hitch slid off her perch to pace the room. “You want to ruin him with a sex tape? Who’s to say the pervert won’t brag about it?” She halted at the door, whirled on her heel, and resumed pacing. “And that poor girl! She’ll be done for!”

“Yes,” Grisha nodded. “That’s the general idea.”

The woman paused mid-step. Grisha held an arm out. She skipped to him, squeezing in beside her father figure in his easy chair as he played the video back for her again. 

“That ‘poor girl’ is Levi Ackerman’s right hand. I have her to thank for exposing Nile Dawk’s untrustworthiness.” His eyes narrowed at the scene before him. The Prime Minister of Sina was looking absolutely smug about thrusting up your behind. “He skirted around my orders for the sake of having a romp with that girl. He’s endangered my plans.”

“So you’re getting rid of him.”

“Of them both.” The video spooled to the end, where Grisha thought he could hear Levi’s muffled shouting in the background. “I have my sights set on Erwin Smith. He’s young; pliable. Charming, ambitious, and focused. I don’t want that woman hovering anywhere near him when he comes to power.”

“You want me to see to this?”

Grisha creaked back with all the weariness of an old man ready to turn in at the end of a long day. “Yes, dear, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

“No problem!” Hitch chirped, springing to her feet. “When do you want it out?”

Grisha waved a hand. He was already closing his eyes, to all appearances intending to doze off right where he sat. “There’s no need to rush. Nile’s fucked up enough. We can let the veto period pass. That way, when the Aid Bill well and truly becomes a law, we can watch those politicians riot on a weekend.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon: Erwin is the kind of person who underseasons everything and accidentally half-cooks meat he intends to defrost.
> 
> Anyone else thinks Hitch would look soooooo good in flapper-esque dresses? The swishy, tasseled ones with low backs and curtains of beading?
> 
> Not the best at fluff (writing touchy-feely things depresses me). Would appreciate your thoughts? I typed this chapter out while in a sort of writer's fatigue rut from having churned out too many chapters (some requiring pretty intense rewrites) too quickly. This has been quite the challenge as I've never done anything like this before, so if I take a little longer than usual to update, or slip with the quality, bear with me and give me a little poke.
> 
> Shout out to my horn-twin from halfway across the world. The chats are soooooooo refreshing! After (even though) we had to prematurely end the conversation yesterday, I finished chapter 15 and am now hammering out no. 16. Thank you for talking to me. <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daddy Erwin's bad romance.

_ In his last year of law school, Erwin Smith looked up from his books, stared at the ceiling of Levi’s dorm room, and announced, “I’m in love.” _

_ Levi was unimpressed. He went on reading and retorted without even looking up, “You’re in love every week. With a different woman every time.” _

_ Erwin slid further down the wall he leaned against, huffing, the explosion of printed case texts around him forgotten. “I mean it this time.” _

_ “Sure,” Levi murmured, mind already far from the conversation. _

_ But Erwin did mean it. He was certain of this one. With slitted gaze, he stared at Levi, to whom he disclosed this infatuation only because the latter was the constant companion of the muse of Erwin’s adoration. He had hoped that Levi would question him so he’d get an opening to ask about her. _

_ That was, apparently, too much to ask of Levi Ackerman. _

_ Nevertheless, despite this failed information gathering, Erwin never really forgot about who he liked to sheepishly refer to as his first love. Long after he and Levi graduated and joined their respective diplomatic corps, Erwin could not walk down a tree-lined autumn path without remembering that night in a similar season when mischievous eyes winked at him through that immortally sensuous dance.  _

_ In his most precious memories, Erwin would forever remember the sweep of her hair across his chest; the grinding motions of her tight body on his lap. He would, ever after, hear that long-absent voice murmur, “No touching,” as he dug his fingernails into the wood of his chair to keep himself from reaching out and sliding his palms under that smidge of belly peeking from the rising hem of her hoodie. _

_ Thereafter, he would always find hoodies on women incomparably alluring. _

_ He saw her again after a few rounds on the diplomatic circuit deposited him back at the Sina head office. For old times’ sake, he visited his old university, wandered around the department of politics and law, and dropped by his frat house. He had a round of beer with the younger recruits on the porch and was finishing his drink and taking his leave when a familiar figure jogged down frat house lane.  _

_ Hair up in a ponytail, cheeks flushed from nippy wind and exercise, curves deliciously wrapped in leggings. Still in a hoodie. Cropped this time, with the planes of her stomach patently visible. _

_ Erwin’s breath caught in his throat. Unable to believe his luck. _

_ His fraternity brothers called out to her. He stood frozen, crushing his empty beer can, practically scrubbing it onto the porch railing. She stopped, waved back, and confirmed her attendance at a party Friday. Then she was off. _

_ Erwin vaguely remembered nodding when asked if he, too, could make it to that same party. _

_ Of course he could.  _ You’d _ be there, and now he knew your name. _

_ Come Friday, a bus filled with Sinian school children on a trip abroad figured in a vehicular accident involving an overturned cargo truck and several private vehicles. The Foreign Minister needed all hands on deck, overtime.  _

_ While Erwin worked communications with the Sinian Embassy overseas, he imagined what it would have been like to be at the party. To finally introduce himself. To finally be allowed to touch you, even if only to shake your hand. To hide away with you in a dark corner, music pounding on the walls. To finally lean in to taste you. _

_ He resigned himself to the thought that perhaps, he would never know. _

_ Several years later, he reunited with Levi, but now as a politician. His old university mate had risen up the Marian diplomatic ranks and had been entrusted with several small meetings. He always brought along one subordinate, and Erwin’s heartbeat skyrocketed when he laid eyes on her and saw you. _

_ Gone was the hoodie; traded in for a prim dress, jacket, and heels. Gone, too, was the peppy ponytail; replaced by cascading tresses. You smiled a red-lipped smile and pushed soft curls behind your ear. _

_ Erwin was absolutely enchanted. _

_ From that moment on, he was determined to have you, by hook or by crook. He put himself in your path, made sure you knew who he was (the way “Mr. Smith” rolled off your tongue was the fuel to his fantasies), found numerous excuses to pester Levi in his office on the off chance of seeing you, and bent over backwards ensuring you noticed him. _

_ One fine day, at long last, you asked Mr. Erwin Smith to dinner with Mr. Ackerman. It would be at a Mitras hotel, to discuss business. Before he could help himself, Erwin blurted out the question that haunted him for years, _

_ “Will you be there?” _

_ You paused, much too long for Erwin’s comfort. Internally, he squirmed, expecting you to hang up. Expecting to receive an angry phone call from Levi demanding that he keep his lechery to himself. _

_ To his surprise, you breathed, “Yes.” He was heaving a sigh of relief when you added, “I’ll be there, Mr. Smith.” And he  _ swore _ you purred those last words. _

_ Erwin could never quite recall just what that meeting was about. He took away only snippets of it - splotches of impressions like Levi’s smugness over his obvious ogling and sexual distraction, and your foot, which always seemed to accidentally brush up against his leg. But he vividly remembered lingering after dinner, waiting until Levi had left before attempting to make his move. _

_ “Fancy a bit of drink to cap off the night?” He hoped he didn’t sound as shaky as he felt. _

_ You had scooped up your bag and were slipping into it a folder of documents when you turned at his question, and in the ensuing silence let flash a hotel keycard. _

_ “I did want to go over a few final details with you,” you straightened. The little plastic rectangle dangled invitingly from glossy fingertips. “Mind if we talk upstairs? We won’t be disturbed.” _

_ He wanted to kiss you until your red lipstick was a smudged mess. _

_ That night, you leaned back against down pillows and received him into your arms as he crawled up to lay between your legs. And finally,  _ finally _ , Erwin Smith experienced in flesh what he used to only dream about as a college boy.  _

_ He agreed to everything you asked without really understanding - or remembering - what they were about, except that when he sprawled in bed, spent, he reached for you and trailed his fingertips across your naked back. You looked up from the documents you were finalising, put them away in favour of curling up at his side, and kissed him all over his face.  _

_ From that very moment, Erwin decided that he needed you. He absolutely had to have you. _

And now here you were. In his apartment on a Saturday, freshly showered, wrapped in a towel, hair dripping onto the floor of the laundry room, holding up your...discarded - retrieved - clothes. Unsure what to do with them, Erwin had simply tossed them into the washer-dryer, and parked your heels beside the appliance. 

There was no need to keep looking at them when you were supposed to be recuperating; no need to keep being reminded of Friday night when that was what you were supposed to be recovering from.

He just didn’t imagine you’d come to the laundry room. Didn’t think you’d look for your discarded - retrieved clothes. Obviously, he didn’t think right, or enough, because here you were, contemplating your just-dried dress with an odd twist to your mouth.

“They’re, um, they’re dried now,” you mumbled, crumpling the dress where you held it up. Embarrassing as it was, Erwin had apparently also set your underwear to wash. You had caught sight of flashes of pink lace amongst the swirl of fabrics in the dryer. 

You felt obligated to put them all on.

“Thanks for the...uh...hoodie. I can...return it now.” Your chin lifted with your breath, then sank back down as if in regret. 

Erwin pried the dress from you, dropped it back into the dryer’s toasty abyss, and shut the lid. You gaped at him.

“It’s still the weekend,” he shrugged, all light flippancy. “You’re off duty. You’re entitled to wear sweats all day.”

The twist in your mouth unravelled into a not-quite smile. You leaned against the dryer, his hand on the lid mere inches from your towel-clad torso. “Levi keeps me on call.”

“Not this weekend.”

It was impossible not to start smiling. “I’d hate to deprive you of hoodies.”

A blond brow quirked to his hairline. “Oh, no. I have a collection.”

Neither of you thought very much about the ensuing touch. Taking you by the hand, Erwin tugged you to his room and into his walk-in closet, where he threw open shelves upon shelves of hoodies in all sorts of colour, material, and styles.

“Take your pick!”

You gasped, head spinning at the selection. “All of these? Just hoodies?”

“Just hoodies.”

You riffled through his collection, completely flabbergasted and incomparably amused. “No other kind of sweaters?”

“No other!”

He dove in with you, piling cozy materials onto your arms, draping you with one oversized hoodie after another until you broke into peals of laughter and fell into him, scattering your haul all over the floor. His arms came around you, pulling you desperately close to himself.

Finally. At long last. 

The sounds of your mirth rang all around him. Cold and damp, you burrowed into his grasp. Cuddled into him still giggling. He kissed your wet hair with his eyes wide open. Wonderous. A lone hoodie, your chosen one, was scrunched up between the two of you.

Erwin let his eyes fall closed as he rocked with you back onto his heels. You smelled of his shampoo. Of his soap. And you were such a wonderful, precious new weight in his arms. He kissed your hair and the top of your head. Again. And again. And again.

And to himself, he promised he’d keep you. Forever and after.

\---

A little after seven o’clock on a Saturday night, a couple of hours after the veto period had passed, Eren Jaeger, who rotated shifts with Levi at the Club, saw his prisoners out. Draggled, weary, and unshaved, all three men shuffled out in single file, watchful of the muzzle of Eren’s firearm, which the boy kept always visible.

The prominent captives plodded across the empty basement parking lot, which had been kept empty for this humiliating procession. Then they all started back home, prisoners and warden alike, completely ignorant of the wildfire that was already beginning to raze across Sina.

\---

The phone call Eld Jinn expected did not come, so he personally followed it up. Justice Minister Flagon Turret had a bit of a reputation for being a cocky asshat, but Eld thought the man would at least take action on a call made by the Intelligence Director himself.

“Eld,” came Flagon’s breezy answer. “Business on a Saturday night?”

“I called it in first thing Friday morning,” Eld griped. “I told you it was urgent. Expected it at the close of the day.”

Flagon chuckled. “That’s much too soon. There wasn’t time to get a warrant hearing.”

As if Eld was stupid. “Night courts are open.”

“Not on a Saturday.” As Eld bit back his irritation, Flagon carried on, “Anyway, it was a good thing it got put off. Some more interesting news came up. I’m afraid that’s what’s going to be keeping me busy these next few days.”

“What more interesting -”

Flagon tutted. “Thought you already knew, being the eyes and ears of Sina and all that. It’s all over everywhere. Google  _ ‘Maria Aid Bill’ _ . What a doozy!” He laughed. “So this is going to be my last peaceful Saturday for the foreseeable future. Ring me when you’ve got something more exciting!”

Eld hit the online news. Then he cursed and dialled Erwin.

\---

Erwin had just tucked you in at the close of the most domestic Saturday in either of your lives when his phone, which had been placed on silent mode, flashed with an incoming call. He swiped ‘answer’ as he moved away from the closed bedroom door.

“Eld?” For the first time in a long while, Erwin’s place was brightly lit, and bore the signs of human habitation. It looked and felt lived-in, from the slightly tumbled cushions to the pair of chocolate-stained mugs on the coffee table. The thought warmed Erwin, though he had a nagging feeling Eld Jinn’s news was about to put it out.

“Flagon hasn’t gotten ahead with the warrants at all,” Eld reported. The knot in the pit of Erwin’s gut told him this wasn’t everything. “He sounded more interested in some...newer developments.”

Erwin frowned. He found his laptop, powered it up, and got online just as Eld grimly said, 

“Saw the headlines lately?”

_ High-powered prostitution: Marian Embassy Trades Sex for Aid. _

“Shit.”

“Shit is right. Flagon was more eager to sink his teeth into this.”

Of course he would, Erwin thought bitterly. It would be a magnificent show of nationalism. If Flagon played it right, he would be assured of a long, prosperous career.

“What do you want to do?”

Erwin’s thoughts strayed to you, sleeping peacefully in the next room, having dozed off on his shoulder in the middle of a movie. What he wouldn’t do to keep you in that safe, worry-free bubble until this whole mess was sorted out.

He wanted to do everything. Preferably all at the same time.

“We have to keep trying for the warrant,” he said instead. “It’ll draw attention away from this. I’ll find a prosecutor and a judge. And Eld -” he fought to keep the personal anger from his voice and failed. “ - find out who’s responsible for this.”

His mobile phone clattered onto the kitchen counter that still bore traces of flour from an afternoon of cookie baking.

Erwin clenched his fists, forcing order into the thoughts whistling through his mind. He could just see how all this was going to go down: accusations of bribery escalating into espionage, rumours about secret deals and speculations about the reality of the existence of the titans. Naturally, Nile, Hoover, and Braun would all fall into disgrace. But Nile would squeal if he thought it would help him or save him from solitary downfall. He would cause a witch hunt in Parliament. Everything would dissolve into utter chaos.

He raked his hands through his hair, frustrated.

It was while he was in this state of mind that you intruded, worrying your lips and saying his name tentatively as you stood at the threshold to the kitchen. His heart sank when he saw that you were already dressed, heels and all, jacket slung over an arm and phone in your hand.

“It’ll be all right,” he soothed plaintively, stepping to you with outstretched arms. But you were already shaking your head, fear and uncertainty splashed clear across your face.

“I’ll be leaving in a bit.” Your voice wavered. “Eren’s returning to the Embassy House from the Club. He’ll swing by for me.”

Erwin reached you. Reached for you. You tried to back away but the moment he touched you, you melted into his grasp. Held him just as fiercely.

“Let me drive you,” he offered against his better judgment, in his deepest of hearts wishing to cling to every last second together.

“No!” You exclaimed, gathering him to yourself, fingers bunching the shirt on his back, your words muffled against his shoulder. Tears sprang to your eyes. “If you’re seen with me it’ll ruin you. I can’t, Erwin. Not to you.”

He held you with his nose buried against your neck, one hand holding your head in place against himself. “I’ll sort this out,” he promised through clenched jaws. “I’ll fix this. Then I’ll come for you.”

Sniffling, you squeezed him one last time before pushing away. Volunteered a watery smile. “Thank you. I’ve had the most wonderful day.”

Fifteen minutes later, a grim-faced Eren came for you. Erwin tried to catch your hand just once more, but your fingers slipped in the air before they could find his. He blinked, and you were gone. 

There was nothing to do but to plod to his bedroom - yours, too, he had begun to think of it. His place felt strange; too bright, too lonely, too quiet. He stopped at the foot of his - your - bed and felt the loss as a void in his chest.

There, atop the smoothed-out blankets, his borrowed hoodie sat, neatly folded and, until recently, smelling like you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that flashback with the lap dance? Yeah, daddy Erwin was that frat president.
> 
> Writing forever about autumn because it's my favourite season but also because summer humidity in a tropical country is impossible and at least in fiction, I can escape it. Also, autumn weather is sooooo much more forgiving on outfits. Dressing the characters is definitely one of my favourite parts of writing!
> 
> Sometimes, I'm excited to post chapters to move the story along. Other times, I'm excited to post just because I think I have a clever one-line summary.
> 
> As promised, K, the history of Erwin's #heartbreakhoodie :D


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are about to go boom again.

All conversation halted when you appeared at the Embassy House. Eren led you inside past curious, peering faces. It took all of your might not to duck under their stares as you trailed behind him to the rooms upstairs, feeling acutely naked in clothes that left your vicious, blue-and-purple souvenirs exposed.

Levi was waiting in your room, hands behind his back as he studied the odds and ends stacked neatly away on your desk. 

“I’ve brought her, sir,” Eren announced.

Levi clicked his tongue. “She’s not a criminal, brat. She’s one of us. One of you.”

The boy’s expression hardened. He looked on the brink of a retort. Levi still had his back turned to him. Eren changed his mind, pressed his lips shut, spun on his heel, and slammed your door behind himself. Levi locked it for good measure, sighed, and leaned against the edge of your desk.

“So,” he said, measuring beats with his drawls, “it’s happened.”

The possibility had always been there, of course. For as long as you played that sort of game, the imminence of discovery perpetually lay just around the corner. Still, for some reason, you didn’t dare sit in his presence. Didn’t feel like you deserved to sit. Felt too dirty, too criminal, to sit.

“The headlines aren’t wrong,” you shrugged, toying with the cuffs of your jacket and wishing suddenly that they were the cuffs of Erwin’s borrowed hoodie. It wouldn’t take away the feeling of self-disgust creeping up on you now, but it would be a comfort; a reminder of happier, softer, more innocent feelings.

You swallowed down the lump in your throat. “Don’t worry, Levi. I’m prepared to resign. Ever since we - I - decided to do this, I’ve prepared myself for resignation.”

He made an irritated sound, but you saw the deep furrows between his brows. The cogs were turning in his head. Already, he was putting together the next phase of the emergency measures he must have been mulling over since this whole hullabaloo blew up all over the media an hour ago.

“No need for dramatics, brat. You’re one of the few capable shits around here,” He shot you a look. “I’m not going to let you go if I can help it.”

“But I won’t be of use to you around the negotiation tables in the future,” you pointed out. 

“Not in the near future,” he agreed. “You’ll have to lie low for a while. Keep to a desk job. Stay out of the public eye. But once all of this blows over -”

“It’s not going to blow over!” you exploded, cutting him off. Images of the news headlines flashed across your mind. “Everyone wants to give this an espionage angle! Majority and minority are calling for an emergency session tomorrow - a Sunday! - to discuss suspending the implementation of the Aid Law. Hell, the  _ President’s _ getting involved!” You sucked in a deep breath before you risked spiralling into hysterics. “The Embassy could be expelled!”

“It won’t,” Levi griped with more force than necessary. He pointed to your bed. “Shut up and listen instead of loosening your goddamned imagination. And sit, for god’s sake. You’re not a kid being punished.”

Despite your misgivings, you sat, robotically obeying. Your heart had flown up to your tonsils and had not stopped hammering since the slew of calls and texts from your colleagues woke you earlier that night.

“Diplomatic relations between us will continue,” Levi explained matter-of-factly, “because even if it is true, Maria will never admit to bribery. If, despite that, Sina insists on retaliating and severing ties with us, they’ll come out the loser. They’ll completely lose access to their biggest port. Their trade will take a blow.” He sauntered over to you, stared you down his nose, and took the chance to flick your forehead. “You ever thought of that?”

No, you admitted. You did not.

He sneered, though without so much of his usual vitriol. “Nile’s jizz must have a dumbing effect.”

You smiled weakly, smothering a flinch. Waited for him to continue. 

“The worst that can happen is Sina withdrawing acknowledgement of your papers and branding you  _ persona non grata _ . You’ll have to be sent home. Or they could jump you with charges for bribery and espionage.” He walked away from you and began pacing the floor. “It’ll all be a ruse, of course. Only for show. They’re unlikely to actually arrest, much less try, you, diplomatic immunity and safe passage and all that shit.”

“That doesn’t sound comforting at all, Levi.”

“No,” he agreed. “Inconvenient, too.” He came up to his starting position in front of you and stopped. You looked at him and he at you. He looked like he might have wanted to reach out and rest his hands on your shoulders, had they not been clasped so tightly behind his back. 

“I had Mikasa draw up a statement - the official Marian Embassy statement. We’re going to cry rape.” He spoke softer; passed an appraising eye on your visible injuries before settling on your discoloured cheek, satisfied. “You already have the bruises to show for it. All you have to do now is play by the script.”

He backed away and began making for the door. You rose. Trailed after him. 

“Hange and I have some business to take care of. I understand Erwin’s cracking on the case, too. We should have something before the emergency meeting at ten tomorrow.”

“And what am I to do all that time?”

He unlocked the door, and for the last time that night, fixed you with a stare so gently serious you couldn’t find the words to argue. “Sit tight,” he said, without the least bit of admonition. “You’ve done enough.”

_ It’s our turn now _ , he wanted to say, and hurried out of your room before he did.

\---

_ A lifetime ago, by fate or by fluke, you ran into Levi at Home Office just as you finished your panel interview. _

_ “So they did put you in a suit,” you teased. He looked older and a bit more care-worn, but he still had a snide smile set aside just for you. _

_ “And here you are, looking for a job.” _

_ Over his lunch break, the two of you took to the nearby park. While ducks bobbed with their butts in the air, you told him all about your application for the foreign service, about having made it through the whole process and being scheduled for deployment the following week when your papers came through. _

_ “The little degenerate,” Levi pondered with a smirk. “Who’d have thought you’d be picked for a career in diplomacy, of all things?” _

_ You beamed cheekily. “Surprise!” _

_ He shook his head at you, and when he’d had time to process the matter, asked where you were to be assigned. _

_ “Just over the border. Sina. Isn’t every newbie assigned there?” You weren’t too excited. _

_ Levi lifted an eyebrow as he shot you a sideways look. “Hey. Don’t you be treating this as a paid gap year.” _

_ You could only grin back, all teeth. He found you out. He rolled his eyes and the two of you moved on to a tree-shaded dirt avenue where the only other person was a mother holding the hand of a little boy while pushing a pram laden with a baby and produce from the neighbouring farmers’ market. _

_ “It’s more work than you think,” Levi warned, though from the tone of his voice you wouldn’t think it a lecture. He spoke with his head down, studying the dusty, packed dirt, as if reminiscing his own first years in the service. “It’s no place for moon-eyed kids.” _

_ “I’m not a moon-eyed kid,” you argued, blowing out your cheeks. The satisfied glow from a successful job interview - the hardest job interview in the country - refused to leave you. “I never was, and I never will be.” _

_ “That’s right, you’re just a delinquent kid,” he jabbed back. To your outraged groan, “I’m being sent back to Sina soon, too. Just about finished my stint at Home Office.” _

_ “Then we’ll be colleagues!” _

_ His expression morphed into an insulted one. “I’ll be your boss. I’m more senior than you are.” _

_ “So?” You started walking again, swinging your arms as you went. The noon sunlight was weak and cloud-veiled. You and Levi may not have seen each other for the longest time, but you slipped right back into your old familiar banter. “I’m more capable than you. In a couple of years, maybe they’ll make me  _ your _ boss!” _

_ Levi sniggered. _

_ The end of the avenue arrived in companionable silence. A little ways away, past the edge of the park, across the road, towered the Ministry of Foreign Service. Home Office. Levi’s. And now, yours, too. _

_ Levi followed your gaze,letting the giddy grin split your mouth before leading you down a winding path from the park avenue down to the sidewalk. “Tell me honestly,” he said, “What made you decide to join the service?” _

_ You were always a happy-go-lucky character. Dopey. Immature. Directionless. _

_ He thought back to the long nights at university, creeping out of frat house windows to drink beer on their tiled roofs. Slurred conversation. Raucous laughter. Groping each other in his room just because he was a teacher’s assistant and it was the closest you could get to fooling around with a professor in your quest for questionable answers.  _

_ You were bright, but rowdy. All misplaced mischief. A welcome whirlwind in his meticulously ordered, reputable life. _

_ Right then, you shrugged, the action all flippant carelessness. ”I thought of you,” you said, and his poor, inexperienced heart stuttered at the sentimental notion of being remembered. Of having a place in someone’s memory. Of being memorable enough to influence life decisions.  _

_ “I remembered how adamant you were about joining the family business. Treated it as your end-all, be-all in life.”  _

_ Dirt gave way to pavement. You had come to the end of the park. When you inhaled, you tasted the faint odour of vehicular smog. Beyond the sidewalk was the road. And beyond the road, Home Office. _

_ “I want to see what all the fuss was about. See if I can’t do a bit of good in this world. It’s a bonus that I get to work with you right off the bat.” Your smile slipped. Gesturing towards the Ministry facade, “Well, here we are, and there’s the end of your lunch break.” _

_ A sudden, whipping, spring wind swept down the street, carrying the earthy smells of the park, blowing your hair back and Levi’s, into his face. _

_ “It’s so good to see you, Levi.” _

_ In two quick steps, he closed the distance between you, grabbed your hand, and squeezed. He sported a tiny smile that suited him better than anything else you’d ever seen. Then, without another word, he let go, crossed the road, and vanished into the Ministry. _

_ One week later, you and Levi sat side-by-side on a flight chock-full of Marian diplomats en route to Mitras. He looked out the window while you pretended to read an in-flight magazine. Between you, hidden behind your crossed knees, your hands dangled together, fingers intertwined. _

\---

_ It’s only sex _ , you reminded yourself, arm over your eyes as you lay spread-eagled on your bed. With Erwin, you were all right, but now, in the dark, alone, the marks from Nile’s whipping throbbed. Your cheek hurt, and the soreness inside you twinged uncomfortably.

Technically, it was still a weekend - Saturday night. But the Embassy House was uncharacteristically packed; unusually  _ around _ . Busy. The slew of noise outside your door, the buzzing, unintelligible conversations, had not stopped since your return. 

Turning to your side, you rolled into a fetal curl. “It’s only sex,” you murmured, out loud this time. Under your breath. Unconvinced.

Since Levi told you to sit tight hours ago, you’d not heard from him. The Embassy’s official statement had probably already been long released, but you couldn’t muster the strength to get up, scour the internet, and see for yourself. Just thinking about the whole affair was oppressive. You were sure you wouldn’t be able to bear hearing about it, reported clinically, accompanied by a heavily censored video. 

You would just  _ die _ if you saw even a second of it. It was impossible to live through the ordeal again.

If the whole sorry event had never been broadcasted, would you be feeling different?, you wondered. Would you have just licked your wounds and returned to your everyday life? 

You were contemplating these things when a quiet knocking interrupted your thoughts. Your door opened, admitting several jumbled silhouettes. The light flickered on.

Sasha, Connie, Jean, Eren, Mikasa. 

“Hey. Doing all right?” They talked in whispers, as if they were at a hospital visiting an intensive care patient. You sat up; scooted backwards to allow your visitors to pile themselves around the edges of your bed.

“Hi.” You managed a smile cheerier than you felt. Your colleagues returned the gesture, and for a moment the lot of you grinned blandly at each other. Unasked questions brimming with curiosity, practically bursting at the seams, condensed onto your congregation.

It was Mikasa who finally broke the awkward tension. “Sorry about what happened.”

You waved her concern away, legs drawn up closer to yourself, unable to look her in the eye. “Thank you for working overtime for the press release and everything.”

“Armin asked to say hello.” Sasha.

You looked up and around. That’s right. Armin was missing. “Where is he?”

Mikasa winced. “Supervising tech.” Taking down all the videos they could find. Contacting the Sinian media regulatory board. Muscling media into shutting the hell up.

“Damage control,” you translated hollowly. The air suddenly felt stale, all attempts at sympathy gone dry. Your colleagues exchanged looks.

“It’s not your fault!” Jean interjected loyally. His voice carried much too loud. “You’re the victim here!” Connie nodded in agreement and Sasha leaned over to give you a hug.

You very nearly corrected them. Very nearly told them that you were a perfectly willing victim. But between the knowing gleam in Mikasa’s eyes, and Levi’s words -  _ Stick to the script _ \- you managed to hug Sasha back, thanked everybody, and played along as they did their utmost to comfort you.

By the time you were deemed stable enough to be left on your own, you were tired of company. Your friends said their good-byes, filing out one by one until only Eren remained. He had not said a word to you for the duration of the visit, and now hung back with knitted brows, his mouth set in a defiant line.

The door shut.

“Eren?” you asked, uncertain. 

He glowered at you and spoke bitterly. “You don’t fool me.”

Still protectively curled around yourself, you leaned back into your pillows, attempting to feign a casual, confused pose. Eren’s fists clenched. You watched him, weary and wary.

“You weren’t raped!” he spat, burning with righteous, idealistic anger. “Your ‘urgent call’. It was Nile Dawk, wasn’t it? He was the reason you had to leave so quickly. The reason you  _ bailed _ on us.” His mouth snarled in disgust. “You even tried to make us believe you were going out with Levi!”

You opened your mouth.

_ Play along. Stick to the script. _

“There’s an active imagination.”

Eren scoffed. “Just admit it. It was a booty call gone wrong, and you’re too scared to tell Levi the truth! Well guess what,” he sniped, “Levi believes you. Completely. So congratulations. While you were snuggling up with Erwin Smith - who  _ also _ believes you - we were all working overtime to straighten out your mess!”

Eren trembled in his rage. Rage for who he thought was his deceived idol. 

He was only a boy. One year in service had not been enough time to put out the stars in his eyes. Eren was promising, but was still too brash. Too trusting and too candid. Untempered.

“You’ve got it all wrong,” you whispered. “We’re all doing the best we can. You, me, Levi, and everyone…” 

“You disgraced the Embassy’s name!” His shout sliced through the air; rang around the four walls of your bedroom. You stiffened like a startled animal but then your door creaked open and Mikasa darted in, hissing to Eren about  _ what did he think he was doing, yelling in the dead of the night? You needed to rest! _ And retrieved him.

“We’re not done talking!” Eren protested, struggling against her grip. Mikasa fairly hauled him out, mumbling apologies for them both. 

“Mika!” Eren thrashed. “Let go of me!” And with one almighty heave, he wrenched himself free, flung himself at your threshold and announced, “You can’t lie to everybody!” Then he stomped out, slamming the door after himself.

You stared after him. Stared at the shut door and feeling its vestiginal tremors. Your lungs heaved with neglected breaths.

But of course you could lie to everybody. Politics and diplomatic relations would not survive in a world made purely out of the truth. The whole first year of your career - and every year after that - was spent learning and mastering the art of knowing when and how to lie.

You lay back, bone-weary, skull resting against the headboard, shutting yourself out from the light the kids had forgotten to turn back off. 

Eren just had yet to learn the saving value of an untruth.

\---

Since Eren whisked you away, Erwin had been keeping himself very busy finding a judge willing to issue a warrant against Grisha Jaeger on such short notice. He made house calls and cashed in on a few favours before eventually persuading Boris Feulner, an ex-public prosecutor turned judge, to climb out of bed at midnight, hold court in his living room, and listen to evidence in his sleeping robes. 

About an hour after his abrupt wakening, the good judge signed a warrant of arrest against Grisha Jaeger for conspiracy to commit terrorism and financing of terrorism. The warrant fell into the hands of Olou Bozado, brazen, eager, and idealistic, who promptly took off in search of his quarry.

Grisha Jaeger was not hard to find. For all his wealth and renown, he had a known address, lived there, and generally made no secret of his more mundane whereabouts and activities. He was also notorious for being a night owl, keeping company deep into the night and through dawn, so that when Olou and his arresting team knocked at his front door, they were met by a brawny bodyguard who merely flicked his eyes down the warrant, consulted with the microphone clipped to his collar, and graciously let the policemen in.

Grisha himself greeted them at the foyer, still sort of dressed for the office in a crisp button-down and sport coat. 

“I’m afraid we’re here to serve a warrant on you, Mr. Jaeger,” Olou said in his lopsided grin-grimace, not sounding at all regretful. His team of five surrounded him, motioning with the barrels of their assault rifles for Grisha’s bodyguards to relinquish their weapons.

With all the self-assured complacence of someone of his stature, Grisha held his hands up. “You’ll have no trouble from me, gentlemen.” Immediately, his hulk of a bodyguard dug out an automatic from his shoulder holster, laid it on the floor, and stood back.

“Hands up,” Olou ordered him. They were not taking any chances. All five of them picked out their own targets, three of them training their sights on Grisha and the last two, on his bodyguard. 

Grisha remained motionless; smiling, even. Olou narrowed his eyes. A pair of handcuffs clinked out of his belt loop.

“Step forward with your hands up, then turn around. We’ll soon be done with the most unpleasant part of this business.”

Grisha obliged, and while Olou cuffed him and rattled off his rights, interrupted, “I’m allowed to call someone, aren’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Well, she’s in here with me.” Grisha nodded towards the bright belly of his house from whence came music, laughter, and the plastic rattle of chips. “We were playing a poker drinking game.”

Olou deliberated but a moment. “Call her in, then. Have her enter with her hands in the air. Any funny business and we’ll shoot.”

“Certainly.” Dignity not in the least diminished by his restraints, Grisha caught the eye of a passing butler, called to him, and said, “Get Hitch.”

A moment later, the butler returned with a young woman in a tight red evening dress, her hands already raised. Olou gave her a quick once-over, determined that she wasn’t hiding any weapons, and drawled, “You train `em well.”

The woman swayed to a stop mere feet from Grisha, hip tilted as if she was posing for a photographer. The train of her evening gown pooled on the gleaming floor. She smiled at Olou and his arresting team, a slow, wide, ruby-red Cheshire grin. 

“You wanted me, Mr. Jaeger?”

“Yes, darling.” Grisha sounded more like he was a minute away from jet setting to a tropical destination instead of to maximum security prison. “I’m going away for a while, so I won’t be able to pick up calls for the investment center. There’s one I forgot to take today. Will you make that call for me, my dear?”

“Certainly.”

“The name and contact number are on a post-it note on my desk. Please let them know we’ve reviewed the proposed business model and have high hopes for its profitability -”

“Make it snappy, Jaeger,” Olou growled, impatient with the corporate jargon. Hitch’s smile dropped into a scowl, but Grisha only shrugged.

“All right. Hitch, sweetheart, tell them we’ve approved the proposal and will be releasing the funds today. You’ll make arrangements for that, won’t you?”

Her eyes gleamed with wicked understanding. “Sure.”

Grisha inclined his head. Over his shoulder, “That’s it, officer. I’m all yours.”

\---

There was no post-it note on Grisha’s desk. There hadn’t been in a long while. The last time that note existed, Grisha was only beginning to hatch his plan for subjugating Maria. He’d handed that note, which contained the name and contact details of Pastor Nick, to Hitch for safekeeping. She’d taken one look, shred the paper with her teeth, swallowed the pieces, and parroted the writing back to a delighted Grisha.

“Such useful talents you have, my little dove,” he’d cooed, forever searing the details of the memory into her brain. Thereafter, they discussed Grisha’s plan at length so that in the unlikely event anything happened to Mr. Jaeger, there was Ms. Dreyse to continue running the show.

The principle behind Grisha’s plan was greedily simple: if he couldn't have Maria to give to Eren, nobody could.

So as soon as the high-pitched whine of the police cars melted away into the night, Hitch raced up to Grisha’s private home office, his sanctuary secreted behind a built-in bookcase in his second floor den, known only to the select few allowed inside it during the most clandestine of meetings. 

Hitch was the most frequent of those visitors. Sold to Grisha as a child to pay off her birth parents’ debt, she was raised in the Jaeger household and quickly became the old man’s favourite - a daughter in every respect but blood. 

She knew her master thoroughly; was bright, with a disarming prettiness. It stood to reason that Grisha trusted her with all of his schemes. 

Now Hitch ripped the telephone from its cradle and dialled the number that flashed forever behind her eyes. It rang only once before Pastor Nick breathlessly answered, “Sir!”

“Haven’t heard from you lately, Pastor.”

A gasp. “Miss Hitch!”

“That’s right,” she droned, twirling to flop onto Grisha’s easy chair. “What have you been up to?”

Pastor Nick stammered. He’d been busy finding an assassin good enough to carry out Nile’s orders. So far, he was wooing Kenny Ackerman, the black sheep of that snooty Ackerman family, into the job, but as soon as the reprobate heard the whole story and quickly figured out that Levi played for the other team, he laughed Pastor Nick out the door. 

_ Wouldn’t like to get on my dear nephew’s bad side _ , Kenny had simpered, baring all teeth through his sliced-up grin. 

Nick didn’t believe him, of course. Everyone knew Kenny hadn’t seen another Ackerman soul, much less Levi, in a decade. He was simply holding out for a bigger offer. Or so Nick told himself.

“I - I’ve been working on something!” The pastor blurted out at last. He held the receiver in both hands and fairly shouted into it, trembling with the excitement of a fresh opportunity. “Nile and I - we’ve been working on eradicating Historia and Dot Pixis!”

“Oh?” This, Hitch honestly did not expect. She never thought that Nile could conjure up a plot half similar to that of the man who had practically already discarded him. But perhaps that was why he and Grisha used to work so well together. 

Hitch sat up; leaned her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand. “And how have you fared on that ground?”

Nick bit his tongue. “Working on it,” he unwillingly admitted after a long pause. “It’s not easy to find a man of a caliber enough for a job like that. And -” he tugged at his collar and cleared his throat. Never was he known to let go of an opportunity to weasel cash out of his benefactors. “- men of that skill level are expensive.”

Nile had wired him the money, of course. But he suspected Kenny wanted more than Nile could afford. And even if he didn’t, Pastor Nick could always find alternative - pleasanter - uses for the cash.

Hitch hummed. 

Nick had never dealt with her before, but he’d heard enough stories to be wary. He swallowed the lump in his throat and clutched the phone receiver with sweaty hands. Hitch could turn out to be a tigress shrewder than Grisha, in which case, he was sure to receive a verbal lashing. Or she could be nothing more than an angry tiger cub, all snarl and no bite.

“Fine,” Hitch said without fuss, and Pastor Nick was so surprised that his mouth opened and he found no words to fill it with. “The money will be there in the morning. It’s a lot more than you need for a hired gun, but that’s because I expect the works.”

Nick’s jaw worked fruitlessly, snapping open and shut until finally he managed to croak, “The...works?”

“Yeah,” Hitch waved her hand about as if they were discussing nothing more important than glittery buntings for a birthday party. “That’s your specialty, isn’t it? Fireworks? With the money we’re sending, you ought to have enough to stage a fantastic show at the international ports.”

Her words hung between them, trickling through the telephone line to Pastor Nick, sinking and seeping into his comprehension. 

He drew a breath through his teeth. Relief flooded his chest, and with it, a renewed vigor. 

“Yes, Miss Hitch! I understand!” Infused with new life, Pastor Nick practically bounced on the balls of his feet. “You will have it exactly as you wish! I will give you the biggest fireworks show there ever was in Maria!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *panel interview - I read that in our country, foreign service exams are a five-tier nightmare that ends in a panel interview. Or a fancy dinner where the candidate has to make an extemporaneous speech. I can't remember which came last, but for purposes of this story, I made the panel interview the last step.
> 
> *holding courts in living rooms - I vaguely remember that court proceedings are looser when it comes to crimes relating to terror but haven't yet heard of a judge holding court in his living room. I liked the feel of the idea, though, so I took artistic liberty. Also, I don't remember Boris Feulner's character very well, but when I wiki'd him and read about his general surrender-to-the-system outlook on life, I thought he'd just be the kind of (young) person in authority who could be talked into the system's grey areas by people like Erwin Smith.
> 
> I actually giggled when I described Eren as 'untempered' because I've been making custard all quarantine and the instructions keep saying "temper your eggs" so I suddenly had a mental image of a bowl of egg yolks with Eren's ragey face. And now you have it too. Sorry not sorry.
> 
> These chapters keep getting longer sheesh.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OG daddies cooperate in thuggery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From here on out, it gets gruesome/violent and frankly, a little weird. The plot gets weird. My writing gets weird. What.
> 
> Even longer chapter ahead.

The wee hours of Sunday broke with a roiling restlessness. All of Sina had, it seemed, stayed up Saturday night, ready to explode on Sunday morning. In the fermenting hours between, the Club wound up for the day, save for Room 49. 

By this time, it had become abundantly clear to its patrons that the Club was the setting for the latest scandal rocking the Sinian political world, so when the Majority Party leader arrived with the Ambassador, accompanied by very eager cohorts, the Club made no fuss. Marlowe Freudenberg was handed over to the only guests for the night.

“I trust you know what you’ve done?” 

They had him kneeling on the floor, blindfolded, hands bounds behind his back. But for that frighteningly familiar voice, the Ambassador’s Room was crypt-quiet.

Gentle fingers raked across the boy’s scalp and suddenly yanked hard. Marlowe grunted, neck strained uncomfortably as his head was forced backward, neck exposed to the faceless predator. Bursts of panic flashed across his mind. Was it going to be now? Would they slit his throat? Shoot him between the eyes?

He swallowed, throat bobbing skeletal. He was bent so crookedly the skin of his neck stretched taut, rippling with the indented minutiae of his windpipe. Moments ticked on. Marlowe dared take only shallow breaths, an animal instinct warning him not to move his trachea; not to draw attention to the very evidence of his sorry life.

The hand fisted tighter in his hair. Its owner leaned down, growled against Marlowe’s ear, “What made you think the big boy games were any of your business, huh, brat?”

Marlowe shivered and whimpered but did not dare say a word. He had already gotten into enough trouble breaking the Club’s most sacred vow of secrecy.There was no need to irk his other employer.

The hand let go with a shove. Marlowe tilted, regained his balance, and threw himself forward, wheezing. Muffled footsteps paced away and around him. He was beginning to talk himself into relaxing a little when something smashed against the side of his face. He let out a pained grunt, fell over onto his side, and tasted blood.

“Fucking answer when you’re asked!”

The footsteps again. Marlowe could not react quickly enough. A foot slammed against his stomach, kicking the unprotected organs, stomping against his ribs. He groaned, swallowing bile and blood as stars exploded behind his eyes. He surrendered to the beating until the owner of the voice, disgusted by the absence of any reaction, ground his heel into Marlowe’s temple before abandoning him. Then the boy lay still, tracking the tendrils of pain as they crept from his brain, blindly taking inventory of his body while his lungs heaved for air. He heard a new voice speak.

“Is there really any need to be so violent?” This one was milder, and came from somewhere in the direction of the sofa.

The first voice tsk’ed. Marlowe caught the flick of a lighter, then smelled the beginnings of cigarette smoke. “You’re one to talk, sitting there for the past ten minutes with your fists clenched. Tell me again you don’t want to wreck this fucker’s face.” Punctuated with a swift kick to Marlowe’s nose. 

The boy cried out. There was a snapping, like a twig broken, then a rush of pain and an onslaught of viscous snot that tasted faintly metallic. He thrashed, digging his forehead into the carpet to assuage the throbbing, breathing through his mouth because his nose, and the front of his brain, were filling with blood.

The first voice sighed. Clicked his tongue. “Unless you’re going to answer my questions, shut up, you little shit.”

More shuffling. The second voice rose from the sofa. Marlowe sensed the hulk of his body as he knelt next to the writhing boy. “We don’t always act like thugs,” he said, all reasonable. “We don’t particularly like doing it either -”

The first man snorted. The smell of his cigarettes was making Marlowe feel sick.

“- but we find that it is the most effective method for...uncooperative interviewees.”

“Interviewee?” He screeched nasally, spewing crimson spit. His whole head pounded, there was a stabbing pain in his side, and his gut was almost certainly mush. “You’re going to kill me!”

A third voice, a low woman’s voice, chuckled. “Precocious, isn’t he?”

Marlowe screeched. It was a vain hope against hope that someone outside the meticulously sound-proofed walls would hear him and spare his sorry life. 

A shoe crushed down on his beaten face. “Shut the fuck up.”

Someone sighed, but Marlowe could no longer follow which sound and which voice belonged to whom. He simply concentrated on breathing; on surviving the next minute and the one after that. 

“Let’s be reasonable now - Marlowe, wasn’t it?”

_ Wasn’t  _ it, he vaguely thought. The idea ended when the shoe lifted off his face and Marlowe shuddered in relief. He nodded, grateful. “Yes, sir.”

The voice hummed approval. “You see everything going on in the guest rooms while you’re serving, don’t you?”

Another miniscule nod. “Yes, sir.”

“You watched a woman be violated before your very eyes and you did nothing to step in, did you?”

Trick question. It had to be. Marlowe felt his rattling, congested breaths and wanted to say that for reasons known only to her, the woman - the Ambassador’s woman, he might add - tolerated the whole thing. Asked for more, even. But he also had a feeling that that was exactly the kind of answer that would not go down well with these people.

“It wasn’t my place,” he choked out instead. “We’re paid to stand behind the curtain and appear only when a - guest - seems to need anything.”

“Then I take it you’re not paid by the Club to film guests who are minding their own business?”

He was finished. The irony in his interrogator’s voice said it all. 

Marlowe’s reply was very small. “No, sir.”

“So who paid you?”

He clammed up. He had caused himself enough damage; dug himself a deep enough grave. He would say no more.

“Marlowe?”

Silence.

“Have it your way, then.” The oppressive mass moved away. “Nothing else,” He declared into a corner of the Ambassador's Room. “He won’t be of any more use. You may get rid of him.”

Marlowe stiffened. Thundering footsteps surrounded him. He was dragged up; raked across the carpet as he fought, digging his heels as realisation sank in and he began to scream.

“I’m sorry!” Frightened tears sprang to his eyes for the first time. Adrenaline surged; thumped against his broken body, found no outlet, and coalesced into a pit of terror in the small of his back. “He offered to pay so much! It would have covered my year’s tuition! I couldn’t refuse!”

Carpet smoothed into tile. The servers’ concealed door with its tiny, familiar creak, grated in his ears. 

“Please!” He was begging through the blood, snot, and tears painting his chin, “I was just trying to live!” If he didn’t try to save himself this one last time, it was going to be over forever. “I’ll tell you his name!” he roared desperately; babbled. “That was the Ambassador, wasn’t it? We were at the Ambassador’s Room. Take me back to him, please! I’ll say anything! I’ll tell them everything!”

Tile became concrete. The air turned cold; smelled stale. He saw nothing still through his blindfold. Throwing his face up to the heavens, Marlowe shrieked, thrashing in the hold of his captors, wishing someone somewhere would hear him and save him.

He heard the banging of metal then felt himself hauled up; tossed into an enclosed space. Padded floors. Icy, freezer-like cold. The sensation of breath frosting as it left his mouth. Metal clanged again; locked. The floor vibrated as an engine came to life. Car. Truck. The claustrophobic space inside a delivery van. A fucking refrigerated delivery van.

Marlowe yelled. His voice sank into the abyss around him. The damned thing was also soundproofed.

They were rumbling along now, coasting through roads. He tried to visualize their route, but a sharp right threw him off balance. He toppled, completely thrown for a loop, absolutely disoriented. Frightened, hurting, he cursed. 

They only wanted a scapegoat. The Ambassador didn’t give a rat’s ass for the name of the man who bribed him. He and his fellow rich, powerful, self-approving hypocrites just wanted to blow off some steam. Have a bit of sick fun at the expense of the little people like him.

“Goddamn you,” he growled. He was bent over double, forehead to the floor, itching to smash his fists into the padding if he could. “Goddamn you! Goddamn every fucking thing!” He moaned and he cried and he railed through his pain, cussing out life even as he desperately wished to cling to it. 

“Goddamn you, Grisha Jaeger! May you rot in the hottest hell!”

No sooner had he said that than the female voice from earlier replied, “Finally. Took you long enough, kid.”

Marlowe quieted mid-hiccup. His chest was still pounding from his exertion; his nose still stuffed and smarting even though the body fluids down his face had dried and begun to crack in the cold of the truck. 

His heretofore unknown companion moved. He heard the shuffle of clothes and boots. She toed him in the stomach, intending to guide him into flipping onto his back. Marlowe resisted and received a kick to the gut for his efforts. He groaned and was forced to roll over and lay flat as best as he could with his cramping abdomen and his hands and arms tied behind himself.

“This is for your own good.” The woman straddled him, then sat on his knees. Warm hands, rather big for a woman but oddly comforting, settled gently on either side of his face. “It’s faster this way.”

He heard the crack, but never felt it. One moment he was thinking her words over, and the next thing he knew was a complete, floating blackness where all tension vanished; where everything, including his name and his bleary existence, went to be forgotten.

In the tangible world, Hange held the dead boy’s face for another heartbeat. Her eyes traced the youthful face, the outline of the eyes obscured behind heavy, dark blindfolds, the limp tongue lolling out a corner of his loose mouth.

No matter how many times she did it, it always felt strange to hold the head after she had broken the neck. It was like cradling a bowling ball; an umbilically tethered bowling ball that used to be alive. 

Shaking herself out of her daydream, Hange put the head down, clambered off the body, and fished out her cellphone. Levi picked up after only two rings.

“It’s Grisha Jaeger.”

He did not even sound surprised. “Thought so. Where are you?”

“Still on the way to the farm. I’ve been told it’s far out in the countryside. Very picturesque.”

A long pause. Then, “Good work, Hange.” Then the line went dead.

How typically Levi.

She sighed, stuffed the phone back into her pocket, picked up the canvas sheet she kept for this very purpose, spread it over Marlowe Freudenberg’s fresh corpse, sat down, and gave his shrouded shoulder a fraternal pat.

“If it makes any difference, you’re not the first one those pigs have eaten.”

\---

He just couldn’t catch a break.

It all began to go to hell since the Third Vote, and only a little more than twenty-four hours had passed since then. He’d been out-manoeuvred in his own Parliament, detained, and threatened by a megalomaniac pipsqueak, completely failed his benefactor, and now was almost certainly going to lose his career and his goddamn mind.

Marie had also been on his case since he returned home, screeching thanks for him ruining their lives and the children’s lives what were they going to do now why the hell couldn’t he keep it in his damn pants!

“Sweetheart,” he’d begun to say when he was cut off by more of her angry tirade. Was she not enough? Had he no shame? Couldn’t he at least relieved himself in a hired whore? Couldn’t he have picked someone else to violate? Did he have to rape Ambassador Ackerman’s woman?

Nile’s head throbbed. He wanted to tell her that that was just it - he didn’t rape her. She  _ was  _ a hired woman! She  _ was _ Levi’s  _ slut _ !

But of course he couldn’t. If he did, he would be admitting to something else - something that would make Marie angrier and force him to acknowledge that this fallout was, truly, of his doing.

“We’ll talk about this later,” he promised, fending off his wife’s justified rage to lock himself in the bathroom. She pounded on the door, shouts and tears mingling, wailing about how she wished she’d never married him; how she should have chosen Erwin -  _ he’d _ never do anything like this!

“Shut up!” Nile finally screamed from the other side of the door. His outburst caught Marie by surprise. She fell silent, and Nile took the chance to shout back, “Don’t you talk about him! Don’t you dare tell me about that bastard!  _ You don’t know shit about Erwin Smith! _ ” 

His fists came down on the granite counter; his words trickled through his teeth. All his adult life, Nile had had to fight Erwin for everything he wanted in his life - for Marie, for his place in Parliament, for political clout, for you -

He won it all -  _ earned _ \- it through his cunning; through the sweat of his brow. 

Erwin Smith, who had everything easy, who had fortune fall into his lap - handpicked by Darius Zackley to lead the Majority Party, making men and women swoon at the sight of him, that  _ blasted _ charm that won Parliament over - would not take from him the things he bled to achieve.

Nile raked fingers through his hair. A laughing growl tore out of his throat. He looked up at his reflection - clothes askew, suit rumpled. Dark bags lined the underside of his eyes from lack of sleep. He looked tired. Unshaved. Older than he was.

Outside, Marie hadn’t said another word. Nile heard her begin to leave.

In a sudden bout of possessive anxiety, he roared, “Don’t you dare leave me, Marie!”

The bathroom lights blazed clinically white onto him, throwing into stark contrast the little lines beginning to pencil around his face, the creases at the sides of his mouth from pursing it too tightly. His eyes were blown wide. Over-bright atop chapped lips, dry from liquor and cigarettes; stained; parted with quick breaths.

Erwin made him like this. Erwin and Levi both. That pair of bastards, acting holier-than-thou, pretending to be gentlemen, pretending to protect you when they really wouldn’t give a second thought about compromising your dignity; forcing you to play along with their lies to suit their own selfish agendas. 

Marie’s voice, quiet but steely, pierced through to him. “Fix this, Nile.” And then she was gone.

Her words shot a streak of clarity in his roiling thoughts. Yes. Yes, of course.

Nile stared at his reflection and saw the trampled ashes of a hero. Why the hell not, indeed? For all of Erwin’s machinations, the man was not Prime Minister.  _ Nile Dawk was Prime Minister.  _ And for all of Levi’s arrogance, he was a mere ambassador. A guest in Nile’s vast kingdom.

So why the hell not?

He could make all of this go away. Appease Marie. Release you from the servitude Levi and Erwin kept you in. 

Nile looked his mirror self in the eye. He could make things right for everybody.

\---

They’d all gone. Left with the boy Marlowe to see him to his grave. Left only Levi and Erwin, the Club all around them deserted in sleep; the Ambassador’s Room kept awake only for them. 

Since their departure, Levi had not sat down. He still stood now in the middle of the room, his back tense. Unmoving as if he were gathering the energy to pounce.

“All right, Levi?” Erwin, on the other hand, had returned to the sofa, sitting on the edge, bent over his knees, elbows resting on each of them. Despite the late hour, he was unruffled. Not a hair was out of place.

The boy Marlowe was not his first kill; far from it. But he didn’t know about Levi. Probably not, if Hange Zoe’s unflinching readiness for it was anything to go by. But if it was, then the woman deserved all the respect Erwin could spare.

“This is just the beginning.”

Erwin looked up at Levi through his lashes. The younger man twitched, and something changed in the way he spoke. 

“I warned that brat.” 

Whether he was talking about Marlowe or about you, Erwin wasn’t sure. But now he recognized the change in Levi’s voice.

A taste for blood.

“I’ll end them all,” he vowed, mouth lifting into a snarl. “Every one of those bastards who touched her. I’ll kill them all.” 

Erwin couldn’t help his snicker. “Sure you’re allowed to use Embassy resources to carry out personal vendettas?”

Levi whirled on him, on the brink of a retort when Erwin’s phone shrilled alive. Both pairs of eyes shot to the screen.

Nile Dawk.

Erwin was still smiling. Almost teasingly, he tilted his head at Levi. “Speak of the devil.”

His phone continued to trill.

“Answer the damn thing!”

The corners of his eyes crinkling with misplaced mirth, Erwin swiped the answer button. Nile’s heavy voice filled the Ambassador’s Room.

“Erwin.”

Levi watched him balance his phone on his lap, leaning back most languidly as he did. “Nile. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Levi’s frown deeped. Nile spluttered on the other end. Erwin found himself monumentally entertained by all of this.

“Cut the bullshit,” Nile hissed. “You started this thing. You sure as hell know what’s going on!”

“But I assure you: I do not.”

The Prime Minister let out an agitated scream. “Take the video down!” His voice coloured with static; held a touch of desperation as it carried through space. “Have you no shame, no conscience? Did that girl’s reputation never occur to you when you leaked -”

“Did you think about her at all when you beat her?”

Nile inhaled sharply. Erwin, when he spoke like this, when he sounded miles away from his usual placatingly nonplussed self, inspired fear. If he weren’t on the other end of the phone, probably halfway across the city, Nile would have imagined the man stalking towards him, a lion prowling just before it dealt the final blow.

“Did you think at all,” Erwin’s voice dropped, “about her well-being when you raped her? Attacked her so violently she couldn’t even run from you?”

All of Nile’s words stopped up in his throat. Deep inside, he couldn’t make himself argue in his own defense. He couldn’t protest, even weakly, that  _ she _ came to  _ them. She _ begged them to stay. 

The thought of saying all that to Erwin when he was in this state made Nile quake. Disgust and self-loathing seeped from his feet up his spine. “So you didn’t -”

“No, Nile.” Erwin’s words cascaded in those frightening, measured beats. Between them was absolute silence. Or perhaps it was white noise - the maddening fuzzy sound buzzing between Nile’s ears. “We didn’t leak the video. We didn’t film our girl. We wouldn’t dream of hurting her like that.”

_ Our girl. _

The way those words slipped off Erwin’s tongue exponentially increased Nile’s discomfort; made him feel as though he’d offended something much greater than himself and was about to be put to task for it.

A compulsion to apologise bubbled up inside him.

“Who -” he stammered instead and cleared his throat. Strange impulses be damned, he was still Prime Minister and he wasn’t about to grovel at the hint of a slightly menacing tone. Gathering up the last reserves of his dignity, he said in a rush, “Who did it?”

Malicious glee coated Erwin’s reply. “It’ll break your heart.”

“Who did it?” Nile’s voice cracked at a shrill note.

“Grisha Jaeger.”

Several beats of silence passed with only Nile’s raggedy inhalations and exhalations stammering through the phone. Erwin and Levi exchanged looks, the latter feigning disinterest even though he drew closer to the conversation. When it seemed like Nile definitely couldn’t eke out another word, Erwin casually said,

“He’s abandoned you. Grisha. He’s left you for dead.”

They heard Nile gulp. Heard the shuffle of his feet as he, leaning against the cool mosaic of the bathroom tiles, slid to the floor. The loss of Grisha’s support did not necessarily mean the end of him, but the loss of the man’s beneficence meant a loss of influence, and that, coupled with the calls for resignation that were certain to come -

“There will be a special session tomorrow.” Erwin was still talking. “I’m sure your office has been sent a notice, but you’re not to attend. You and Hoover both. We’ll be deliberating disciplinary action -”

Nile moaned; held his face in his hands. He was all alone now. It was going to be over. Unless -

“Truce!”

Erwin stopped. Nile babbled.

“Let’s have a truce. We’re old friends. We have history, Erwin. We can’t be beaten by something like this!” He laughed nervously; tugged at his already loosed and hopelessly knotted tie. “Look. You’re Golden Boy. Most likely to be Prime Minister. I’ll support you. Minority will support your election. Minority will  _ nominate _ you!” he cried, clutching his phone with both hands, looking and sounding just a little bit too eager over everything. “The only thing I want in exchange is that you get me out of this jam!”

Erwin said nothing. Mad, panicked, Nile clambered up to his knees, his body ready to prostrate itself on the bathroom floor as he begged into the phone,

“I’m as much a victim here! Grisha Jaeger is our common enemy! We must unite against him! -”

“You’ll nominate me?”

Erwin’s sudden question threw Nile for a loop. Dazedly, he nodded. “Yes.”

“I suppose…” He paused, but the quickening of his pulse told Nile the decision had already been made and Erwin’s answer was obvious. For as long as he had known the man, one thing remained constant: he was a glutton for power and couldn’t resist the promise of it.

“All right. Truce.”

Nile could have whooped for joy. “You’ll put in a good word for me tomorrow?”

“As much as I can,” came the mild reply.

This was enough for him. He disconnected the call with an ecstatic, “You won’t regret it!”

Erwin’s phone beeped into blackness. He and Levi stared at it, the latter looking like he was about to crack a smile. Erwin lifted his head, met that steely gaze, and chuckled,

“That went better than expected.”

“Because he’s a sucker.” Levi rolled his eyes, strolled to his favourite armchair, and picked up the jacket slung behind it. “Now you only have a few hours to think up a convincing betrayal,  _ Prime Minister _ ,” he jibed with a meaningful quirk of his brow. 

They shared a laugh.

After a moment, Erwin mused, “Nile must be pretty angry at Grisha Jaeger now.”

“Angry enough to kill,” Levi agreed. “He thinks you’re the only friend he has left in this world.”

The idea made Erwin grin. A wide, sincere, innocent smile. “Do you think he’ll go that far? For us?”

Levi appraised him. In a room that had seen so much violence and tears, that had borne witness to a university boy’s last minutes, Erwin was strangely calm. Frighteningly at home. If the carpet began to ooze blood that flooded the floor, Levi had no doubt Erwin would go on sitting there, smiling at him, hatching plans behind his steepled fingers while the gory tide rose around him.

For the first time, the imagery injected a thrill into his veins. The notion of vengeance, of suffering for suffering, suddenly was  _ so. very. appealing _ . to him.

He snickered at Erwin’s boyish eagerness. “I always did think you had a vindictive side to you.”

This pleased the other man very much. “We’re alike that way, Levi. We avenge those dear to us.” His face brightened; tone lightened. “Besides, why dirty your hands when you can have someone else do it for you?”

Despite the hour, they mutely agreed to share a drink. Or two, lounging and sipping quietly until their brains were pleasantly warm. Room 49 was unattended, which was a shame because neither of them were in the mood for taking advantage of it spilling drunken secrets.

They parted still steady on their feet. Buzzed, but not tipsy. 

“Going home?” They were rising, smoothing down their clothes.

Levi shook his head. “Embassy House. Can’t leave her.”

Erwin nodded approvingly. His head drooped just a little. “That’s right. I wouldn’t leave her either, if I were you.” He licked his lips and turned towards the door. A faraway expression crept up his face. “Know what she told me?” He spoke in a rumbling huff. “Did it all for you, that poor girl. Gave herself up to secure aid. For you. So the Queen didn’t get mad at Levi, she said.”

Levi stared at him.

When Erwin talked about you, his features softened; made him look a bit more inebriated than he actually was. “I’d kill for a girl like that,” he confessed. “They call her Levi’s girl. The Ambassador’s girl.” He shook his head, whether ruefully or to clear it, neither of them were sure. But his voice turned husky, and his eyes were crystal when they slid over to Levi. “I’ll end worlds if it will make her mine. Grisha Jaeger, Nile Dawk, Reiner Braun, and Bertholdt Hoover...I’ll end them all if it will make her  _ my  _ girl.”

Levi gaped at him. Then he clicked his tongue. “You’re drunk, Smith.”

“Maybe.” He watched Levi leave and followed after him. “But I thought I’d let you know, anyway.”

Levi began making his way down the hall to the parking spaces. Looking after his retreating back from the open door, Erwin called, “Tell her for me, Levi!”

Levi disappeared down the staircase to the basement parking without another word.

\---

After he’d been kneeling on the tile for a while, the fog lifted from Nile’s mind and he realised one crucial thing: he’d sold himself short. Why, it came to him now from the burgeoning ache in his kneecap, should he have to squander everything he had for the vague chance of a dim career in government service?

He was too young to retire in disgrace. What sin had he committed that warranted it? What wrong had he done that Erwin Smith himself and more than half those ugly pigs in Parliament hadn’t? They’d all used the same woman, hadn’t they? Dispensed favours on the same terms. Conducted state affairs with their cocks inside the same cunt!

Nile drew himself up, the wilting, shuddering trepidation from earlier turning into a ball of rage.

Why should he have to take the fall? Why should he have to be the sacrificial lamb?

He rose. Ripped his tie over his head. Unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it to the floor. Made quick work of his trousers. Toed off his shoes. Stripped himself clean.

His reflection glared back at him.

So his Parliament thought they were going to discipline him? Those upstarts, calling a special session without him. Holding a goddamn session to oust him?

His fists clenched at his sides. 

He would show them. Unmask those children and show the world who they really were. They wanted to take down Nile Dawk? He would shake them up. Demolish Parliament. And he would take every single one of those guilty fuckers down with him.

He wouldn’t need Erwin Smith and his allies anymore. Nile would make sure that amongst those who fell with him, Erwin Smith crashed first. 

\---

Your room was dark when he entered. Levi made to switch on a lamp when a little voice from your bed called, “Don’t.” He froze, let his eyes adjust to the darkness, and meandered over to your bed as best as he could.

“Blackout curtains, too. You tyna trip on something and kill yourself, brat?” You lay on your side above the covers. The hand that jerked Marlowe Freudenberg’s head around reached out to smooth your hair back.

“Did you get it done?”

He thought for a minute before remembering that he didn’t explicitly tell you where he was going, and then nodded. “Ah.”

“What did you have to do?”

The warmth at your temple slid over your eyes. Under his fingers, he felt the flitting of your eyelids; the brush of your lashes as you involuntarily shut your eyes. “Just tying up loose ends.” The hand lifted. Your eyes remained closed. “How are you?”

You shrugged. From your face, his palm passed down your jaw, dipped into the valley between your neck and the sharp slope of your shoulder. He traced your motions with his skin, following the rise and fall of your shoulder, skiing down your arm and wandering up again to the fists balled under your chin.

“I don’t know,” you whispered. “What’s going to happen now?”

He captured your wrists. Thumbed them. You used to turn your hand around when he did that, unfurling your fingers to twine then with his. You used to love holding his hand, grabbing it out of nowhere, for every godforsaken excuse, so much so that it was embarrassing.

Now your fists were tightly clenched. His caresses stopped and he simply circled your scant joints, holding on lightly.

“There will be a disciplinary session tomorrow morning - later today.”

“Will you have to be there?”

He made an affirmative noise.

You tucked your chin deeper into your chest. “And the Aid?”

“It’ll be all right,” he replied automatically. He didn’t truthfully know, but he sure as hell was going to make sure it stayed all right.

He wanted to ask what you were thinking, but knew better and refrained. Silence always prompted people into filling the emptiness with words, so he held his peace now, resuming instead the gentle strokes of his thumb. From his ministrations, your skin fluttered with microscopic activity, the first tremors of stirrings to come. 

He wasn’t disappointed. It wasn’t long before you murmured, “Must you go? Tomorrow?”

“Don’t you want me to?” he replied in the same low voice.

“I don’t want you to be embarrassed.”

His grip tightened. “It’s not embarrassing to defend you.”

You whimpered, and he felt your forehead touch his arm. His hand was enveloped in the warm curve of your body. He didn’t dare move. For several minutes, you shuddered, as if swallowing sobs, but he felt no dampness. At last you stammered,

“It’s not just sex, is it?”

Guilt washed over him. At your voice, so tiny and uncertain. At all those years. All those steely half-truths he fed you in his misguided attempts to toughen you up.

“If it was  _ just that _ , I’d have long forgotten about it. I’d have walked away from it without another thought.” You hiccuped, but still did not cry. 

Levi wanted to hold you, horrified at himself; at the nerves of steel that kept your eyes dry. 

“But _ I can’t stop thinking about it _ .” Your voice turned hoarse. Your mind felt picked at and pulled apart in all directions. “I’m not dirty. I know it; you used to tell me all the time. But I  _ feel _ dirty. And I can’t stop thinking. I  _ can’t stop feeling their hands on me _ .  _ I can’t stop feeling awful. _ Did I misunderstand what you taught me, Levi? Did I do something bad? Where did I go wrong?”

His chest felt hollowed out. The longer you stayed touching, the more it seemed to him that his essence, his soul, was being sucked out and he was drying into a husk. He managed to shake his head, the action invisible and futile in the swallowing darkness, and rasped,

“No. No, you’re all right. I was wrong.”

He couldn’t do this. Extricating his hand from the cavern of your warmth, he fell off his seat to kneel by your head. You had all but rolled onto your stomach, hair a curtain around your face, the silhouette of your shoulders trembling.

In the sallow light, his eyes shone wide. Terrified. At a loss. He peeled back your hair. You refused to move. Refused to look at him. Mechanically, he leaned forward. Kissed once, long and pained, above your ear.

“From Erwin. He asked me to tell you.”

The sob finally broke from your throat. Then you were bawling, crying into the mattress, the sounds of your grief-stricken relief damp, punctuated by little lightning bolts of strangled gasps. 

Levi dug under your chin, found your hand, and wrenched it free. Forehead to your sheets, eyes screwed shut, he bowed, pressing lips to your salty skin, begging your forgiveness, crucifying himself with his own guilty agony as he sank to the floor, still holding, still fervently kissing, still praying for absolution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *being fed to pigs - rank lists suggested this as one of the best ways to dispose of bodies. My morbid imagination latched onto it and refused to let go until I tried it out on an unsuspecting character. Sorry, Marlowe.
> 
> *ending worlds - Can't remember where i first stumbled upon this metaphor. Ending worlds by ending lives. Ending lives is equivalent to ending worlds. Maybe it was Dostoevsky or something more pop culture. I just thought it terribly romantic and couldn't resist feeding it into Erwin's dialogue.
> 
> Dramatic!Levi is the direct result of too much Russian movies/literature with no one to make deep, ragey discussions about them with to blow off steam. And I'm so hot for assassin!Hange???
> 
> This chapter was such a long mess. I'm sorry. There was just no right place to cut it!!!


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lying and back-stabbing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING. SELF-HARM AHEAD. It's in the tags but just in case. 
> 
> Very long chapter. Double-chapter long.

The plan was simple: storm Parliament (on whom all media eyes were) and spill the kinky secrets of its members. 

The people might even declare him to be a whistleblower, Nile thought, turning the feel of the title around in his teeth. And whyever not? Apart from airing his fellow politicians’ dirty laundry (always welcome any time, in whatever society), he did try to redeem himself by subtly blocking the passage of the Aid Law. 

So, Nile Dawk reasoned to himself, he was the least guilty. In fact, if there was anyone the people should blame for the tainted Law, it would be the entirety of Parliament - of that rotten institution and every single head that comprised it. Parliament, who insisted on doing things its own way despite his best efforts to save it from its own folly. 

It was a brilliant plan. One he had to share, for humanitarian and generous reasons, with his only ally.

He called Bertholdt Hoover.

To his surprise, Bertholdt cried, “Are you out of your mind?” Logically, mentally, he understood Nile’s desperation; sympathised with him, even. But the ‘brilliant’ plan the Prime Minister proposed was nothing short of suicidal.

“We’ll take them down with us!” Nile insisted, cackling, which made Bertholdt think that maybe, just maybe, all this stress was beginning to take a crack at Nile’s sanity. “Parliament will be crippled -”

“And then what?” he griped. “What good will that do us?”

Nile shook his head, clicking his tongue for effect and wagging a finger as if his listener was a dim schoolboy instead of a grown man; a fellow politician at the other end of his telephone line.

“Misery loves company. You ever hear of that? We’re plenty miserable!” He spread his hand, the one that wasn’t holding the phone receiver. “We might as well have company! Don’t you want to destroy them all? Punish those hypocrites?”

No, Bertholdt thought, he did not, and even if he did, not in this way. It wasn’t anyone else’s fault only he and Nile got caught committing the same crime everyone else did. It was just pure, tough luck. Besides, 

“You’ll only get us slapped with additional corruption charges!” he growled, hoping to hell he could get through the vengeance fogging Nile’s reason. “We can get out of rape charges because that girl clearly asked for it. _Begged_ for it, even. _She_ can’t deny it. But we cannot - _we will never be able to_ \- shake off corruption charges!”

Nile made a dismissive sound. “Don’t be silly. A rape charge can just as easily end your career -”

“It won’t!” Sweat had broken out over Bertholdt’s forehead now. His mind and heart both raced. Nile Dawk was known to be a formidable political strategist, but his talents, as Bertholdt was just now unfortunately discovering, were very easily overridden by his impulsive streak. He had to talk some sense into Nile, to persuade him to harness his brain, but judging by the way the latter sounded, Bertholdt wasn’t sure he was up to the task.

“Listen,” he said in a last-ditch effort, “we can make this go away. It will blow over. We just have to keep our heads down. Lie low. We can step out of the public eye for a while. If we resign now -”

_“I will not resign!”_

Nile’s roar stunned him into silence.

“You’re a coward, Hoover!” the Prime Minister spat. Bertholdt could imagine him pacing as he ranted, punctuating every slapping word with the heavy-handed gesticulations he had become notorious for among interns and staff he considered less than competent. “This is why you’ve never risen the ranks by yourself! If I didn’t pluck you out of the mud, you would never have tasted Parliament! You would still be a clerk in that hellhole - doing what? Pencil pushing? Kissing ass?”

Bertholdt’s eyes slid shut. All true. It was all true. But this was not the time to make an accounting of these things. This was not the time for Nile to be making grand, conceited speeches. 

“You’ve got to take what you want! Visualise it, and take it! You can’t go about the rest of your life hoping someone like me will come and drag you to the top with him! I’m one of a kind, Hoover! And I’ve brought you all this way! Now you’ve got to work to keep your position. Play the game!”

Bertholdt passed a hand over his face. Why couldn’t Nile see where this was going? How this was inevitably going to end if he insisted on starting a pointless, purely destructive war?

“- Turn tail and they’ll eat you! It’s not people who run Parliament and politics! It’s hyenas who cannibalise each other!” Nile paused for breath and for effect. “Can’t you see it?” he urged. “It’s right under your nose! _They’re doing it to you! To us!_ ”

Glass shattered from Nile’s end of the conversation and Bertholdt’s mind jolted forward at the sound. Nile was mad. Nile could not longer be persuaded. Nile was a lost cause -

“We have to end them first. _Finish them._ Take them down with us before they can do more damage. If we don’t level the playing field, they’ll eat us whole and then we’ll never be able to recover!”

\- Nile was going to cave to his reckless impulse, and it was going to end not just Parliament and the handful of men he picked out as his enemies, but also himself, and Bertholdt, beyond salvation. The political field - the playing field, as Nile put it - could never be evened. Nile’s little vindictive moves would only pile more troubles on their heads. Sink them deeper.

“You understand what I’m saying, Bertl? I picked you. Of course you understand. You’re not dumb. You know why we have to do this, don’t you? We have to disarm our enemies to assure ourselves of a future!”

Bertholdt let out a soundless, shuddering breath. There was only one thing he understood now: he had to help himself. That was probably the only sensible thing Nile had said to him during his lengthy oration. He had to play the game. Eat before he was eaten. 

And he had to begin with his mentor. 

“Yes, Nile. I understand.”

The Prime Minister uttered a triumphant whoop. Then he began to relay his plan, in great detail, to Bertholdt Hoover, who caught his words and held them fast; drank them in; immortalised them. Who nodded along, grunting assent in all the right places.

“It has to be done now,” Nile concluded, “before the morning session. They’ll never have a chance to try to discipline us!”

Bertholdt tried to sound equally enthusiastic.

“I’ll see you there, won’t I? Fifteen minutes to session?”

“Sure. I’ll be there.”

Nile huffed his contentment. “Good. Dress spiffy. Don’t be late.”

As soon as he clicked off, Bertholdt allowed himself a moment of quiet to stand in the middle of his apartment, breathing in and clutching his phone and deliberating, for the final, fleeting time, whether what he was about to do was a good idea.

He thought of Nile, of the latter’s words and the mental image conjured by his wild conversation. And the decision was made for him.

Bertholdt lifted his face to his ceiling, inhaled the sight of stark white, exhaled slowly, and dialled. Within seconds, Erwin Smith’s Chief of Staff picked up. In another minute, Bertholdt was connected to the man himself, and found himself relating to the Majority Party leader, their sworn enemy by principle, the entirety of Nile Dawk’s plans, exactly as it was relayed to him.

\---

You dressed in mutual silence, you putting on a pair of jeans and Levi zipping himself into a fresh suit produced from your closet. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to stay the night without time to return to his own place to wash and change for his next appointment, so over time, he’d taken to leaving a few sets of clothes at the Embassy House.

At first, he left them in the downstairs coat closet, which always contained a damp or used coat, or both. Eventually, the idea of Levi’s pristine, bagged suits hanging alongside those soggy, wrinkled things so disturbed you that you smuggled the plastic-wrapped items into your own closet where they hung ever since. 

Levi never mentioned the move and neither did you. It was just one of those things between you where you both understood every meaning, every particle, without needing to say a single word. 

Such as now, where the quiet provided a backdrop to the slithering of Levi’s silk tie as he knotted it, its rustle a contrast to your grunting exertions in trying to get into skinny jeans, tiptoeing now on one, now on the other, socked foot as you attempted to dress with the least possible pain.

The shuffling of silk stopped. From the foot of your bed, where his suit hanger, bag, and suit again, this time the old one from the day prior, were scattered, “You could just wear a dress,” he pointed out.

“No.” Holding your breath, you gave one almighty, devil-may-care heave, and swallowed the wince as the fabric scraped the marks on your thighs, dragging up your cotton-clad bottom to rest, finally, just a little above your hips. From the waistband up, nothing but the stray tail of a welt flashed every now and then, appearing and disappearing too quickly for certainty. You buttoned your jeans and turned to him.

Levi returned the look meaningfully. Practically. “You skin needs to breathe,” he pointed out, biting off the rest of his nagging diatribe with effort. Did you remember to put on ointment? If you did, what was the use if you were just going to wipe it all off on your clothes?

Practised fingers worked quickly, looping and folding and tugging from muscle memory. It was just as well, because suddenly the thought consumed him, the horrible suggestion that those marks might never fade; might brand themselves forever onto you. He was probably more concerned about it than you were - at least outwardly - but he so loathed the thought of Nile scarring you, of leaving even a single trace of his hand on you.

He pulled a bit too aggressively. Silk squealed, strangled itself, and slanted askew. He sighed through his nose; hands fell. You, who had been watching this whole adventure unfold in the space of a minute, came over to undo the knot for him. 

He wilted forward, forehead resting against yours, thumbs catching on the belt loops of your trousers as his hands circled, not touching, not quite even resting, on the denim hugging your hips. He opened his mouth and you felt the ghosts of his apology beginning to precipitate, and cut him off.

“I know.”

“You have to take better care of yourself.” Defeated.

“I know. Don’t beat yourself up over it.” Silk sang; fell into a respectable knot between the juts of his collarbone. You could feel them under his clothes, just underneath the stiff polygons of his collar. Giving his tie a needless little upward wriggle, you stepped back before he could say anything more. “Time to work.”

Palms smoothed over the impossible crisp of his shirt, dipping a little over-under the laterals of his chest before dropping away, back to your sides. Then you realised your half-nakedness and dove back into your closet to snatch up the first item you touched - an oversized, baggy, knit sweater that drowned you, made you seem so suddenly small, the moment you put it on.

Levi noticed everything - your jerky walk that attempted to mask the strain of locomotion in those impractically tight jeans. The little nuzzle you stole from your sweater before putting it on.

“Listen, brat,” he began to say as the thick material enveloped you, swallowing you until you were nothing more than a head, a fuzzy sack, and fragile denim-clad legs. Then he changed his mind and changed course. “I’ll be back as soon as session ends. Don’t do anything stupid and for heaven’s sake have a day off. And I don’t mean in your room.” Then he jerked his face away, embarrassed by his concern and by the bemused twitch at the corner of your mouth.

“Yes, Levi.”

“I’ll be back to make you dinner.”

You lifted an eyebrow, tagging each of your elbows by the cups of your palms. “Wow. Special treatment. The others are going to be jealous.”

He grimaced. “Don’t get cheeky with me.”

You grinned, then winced when the action nudged the bruised side of your face. Levi clicked his tongue, padded to your desk where he insisted his unreasonably large first aid kit take up residence, and rooted through it for a medicine bottle and a cotton pad. Both were plonked onto the table.

“Twice a day, d’you hear?”

Your grin grew strained, shrank, and finally froze. “Yes, Levi.”

He frowned. Made his way over to where you twisted your hands together as you stared down at your floor, at your feet, in their purple, star-patterned socks, beside his immaculate black leather dress shoes. You let him take your head; allowed him to guide you to his shoulder; let yourself hear the low vibrations of his voice.

“What’s with that face?”

You nosed his clothes, squashing face-first into charcoal twill. “You’ll be late.”

“Those bastards will wait.”

They will not, and both of you knew this. Parliament was going to meet whether or not Levi was there. But you appreciated the sentiment all the same: the unspoken concern, the solid, dependable certainty.

“You don’t have to keep worrying about me.” Having had your fill of his scent, you tried to pull away. He let you. You stepped back, two and a half steps away, and gifted him with a dry-eyed smile. He had so much to think about already. You were supposed to help him. You _existed_ to help him, not to add to his burdens. 

“I’m okay. Had a good long cry, didn’t we? That’s all I needed. I’m ready to jump back to work even now.”

His eyes flashed with unspoken sadness. But he blinked, and it no longer existed. “I will always worry about you,” he said, “because you’re a brat.”

You attempted to laugh. “Let’s go out together. I’ll see you off.”

He relented. You were relieved. Because without the crutch that was Levi, you weren’t sure how you were supposed to return to everyday life, much less step out of your room. 

Eren’s words burned in your thoughts. Stamped shame and smoked apprehension into you. In the face of his disapproval, you imagined the same doubts, the same questions, flitting about the minds of your colleagues.

And just like that, all at once, you wished you weren’t returning to the world, to society, with Levi, after all. As you watched his dark-clothed back pass the threshold, you heard the words again.

_It was a booty call gone wrong and you don’t have the guts to tell Levi the truth. Well guess what? He believes you._

Yes. That was true. Despite having spent the last few hours together, undisturbed in mutual emotional agony, neither of you discussed it. And yet as Eren said, Levi completely…

You were about to slam your door and lock yourself back in when Levi, with uncanny foresight, half-swivelled, calling over his shoulder, “You coming? I thought I was going to be late.”

Shaken from your stupor, you mumbled hasty assent, closed your door, and hurried to descend the steps with him. People parted where he passed; curious eyes dared not linger. You walked with him to his car, different from the one he used to drive. Different from the one he took to the Club to ‘tie up loose ends’.

“Levi.” 

He was just getting in, but paused at the sound of your voice. You bit your lips, let your gaze roam, and finally let them settle onto the asphalt between his brushed, clearly new, tires.

“Thank you.”

He needed only to follow your eyes to instantly understand. “Don’t worry about it.”

He reached for you, found your hand, and squeezed. Then his car door slammed and he was backing away and you were standing by yourself. With the imprint of his hand around yours still warm, you watched him go just as you did all those innocent years ago, into the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and now, into his life; his world.

This time, you felt just a little bit lost.

\---

Erwin had not had a wink of sleep since you left him the previous night. He and Levi had dashed around the city, fast tracking plans and trying to save what they could of the situation. And after Levi left to keep you company, his mind had just not stopped whirring. Over and over his thoughts returned to you, patching up a bizarre collage of the happy and terrible moments you shared together, all brightened by giddy dreams of the things he hoped to share with you in the future.

Provided there was a future. 

Erwin shook his head and let the grey wash of urban, autumnal Mitras sweep over him. 

What was he thinking? Of course you and he would have a future. He practically had you now. He’d finally been able to comingle his life - his wholesome, sincere life - with yours. You and he had finally crossed paths as the raw, personal versions of yourselves, stripped of ambition, of the feverish pitch of the next goal; the next achievement.

At long last, you had come into his life.

Autumnal Sunday in Mitras - this Sunday, anyway - was speckled with people. People bearing placards. People marching towards Parliament. Protesters again.

Erwin leaned against the headrest of his seat as his vehicle slowed to a stop. Through the dark-tinted windshield, past his driver’s shoulder, he could make out the beginnings of a bumper-to-bumper jam.

“Trouble?”

His driver made a show - futile - of trying to see to the front of the vehicular procession. He craned his neck, waved about, and finally accordioned back to his seat with a shrug. “Can’t tell, sir.”

He’d barely said the words than the shriek of a single police siren pierced the colourless morning, and from somewhere in front of them, Erwin heard the not-quite-words of a directive blasted through a megaphone. Their queue suddenly began to roll forward, all cars proceeding at a leisurely, crawling pace. 

On the sidewalk, the protesting pedestrians converged and thickened. And as they passed one block to enter into the next, Erwin saw - and heard - the cause of the traffic. All along the curb, neatly lined up into their roadside pay parking spots, motorists rolled down windows and honked horns while shielded behind them, crowds of demonstrators shouted broken chants and foisted posters into the sky. 

Riot police would have been an excessive response to this (mostly) legal display of unrest. What law enforcement personnel were present had to content themselves with directing traffic and frantically signalling the occupants of the parked cars to keep the noise down. 

Erwin found himself smiling in the face of it all. More than anything, he was amused by the gall and foresight that possessed Grisha Jaeger to unleash this upon Sina on a weekend, and was delighted by the ingenuity of these last-minute protesters.

The entertainment refreshed him. He sat up straighter, mind clear, suddenly knowing what he had to do. 

He rang Nanaba. She answered on the fourth ring.

“Commander?” the dourness of the situation couldn’t shake the mischief from her tone. She addressed him still in that blasted nickname his staff thought remained only behind his back.

Erwin took this as a good omen. “At the office already?”

“Yep.”

“Great. I need you to dig up all the concessions and favours granted by Parliament to Maria for the last -” He recalled a moment the duration of your adventurous trysts and gave the time frame. “I also need the names of the M.P.’s instrumental in their grant.”

“Sir?” Nanaba asked, confused. History at a time like this?

“Have it on my desk in ten minutes.” They were just rounding into the gates of Parliament’s premises now. “And be ready to call their offices for a private meeting before session.”

“Sir?” Nanaba said again, this time with the full force of her bewilderment. Erwin had to smile. Of all the Chiefs of Staff, she was probably the most harangued, seeing how he definitely took undue advantage of her diligence and forever pestered her with the oddest requests at the oddest of times. 

“Thank you, Nanaba,” he said sincerely. She grumbled, embarrassed, and disappeared to fill his request. 

As his driver meandered up Parliament’s driveway, Erwin finally made up his mind to text you. He’d been agonising over it while he sat sleepless in bed the last few hours, turning over awkward compositions and striking down the overly effusive until the time came for him to dress. He’d thrown down his phone in surrender, decided that perhaps he ought not to pester you, and let the matter rest.

But now, inspired by the bare fact of having a plan, a concrete next step, the joyous impulse seized him once more. He tapped out his little missive, heart bursting with tenderness and a too-soft grin on his face (that he certainly hoped his driver was not paying attention to), hit ‘send’ and tried not to be too excited about the prospect of you reading it, and of him receiving a response. 

_Good morning. How are you? I thought of you first thing today._

\---

Once you’d managed to gather your nerves, you began the short trek back to the Embassy House, foregoing the front door, which was likely populated by the curious souls who watched the proceedings between yourself and Levi, for the rear kitchen entrance. 

You rounded the porch and were just making your way to the backyard when Sasha accosted you beside a green-thumbed colleague’s row of flower patches. Arms akimbo, she greeted you with a great, big, “Aha!”

You started, frozen to your spot despite the wild urge to run in the face of her typhoon voice and thundering presence.

“Found you!” She swooped down upon you, making to grab when she suddenly remembered herself and settled instead for shoving her face by yours. You leaned back and away, eyes darting to and from hers. She examined you with a narrowed eye and then abruptly straightened, turned on her heel, and merrily cried out, “Follow me!”

Your legs obeyed of their own accord. You toddled after her as she slammed into her domain, greeting her kitchen good morning and waving you to a seat at the center island. You slid onto a high stool and watched her potter about. Within seconds, a cup of tea materialised in front of you, followed by a selection of breakfast pastries, a small basket of bread, and an overflowing tray - by then it couldn’t reasonably still be called a plate - heaped with all sorts of breakfast food. 

“Eat,” she ordered, settling onto her elbows beside you. Brown eyes flicked once to the food before resolutely straying away. Sounds of life and conversation filtered in from other parts of the house, but miraculously, despite the obvious wakefulness of the other residents, not a single soul drifted into the kitchen.

“What’s all this about?” You didn’t mean to sound ungrateful, but Sasha’s studied nonchalance was suspicious, acting like she made you a buffet breakfast every day and stuck around quietly watching you scarf it down.

“Just breakfast. _Food_.” Her nose twitched. The smell of greasy bacon danced in the air. The food was so fresh you could still see the steam rise from it.

“But why?” you persisted. Despite the pang of hunger you felt at the display, the very thought of eating made you feel ill.

“Can’t I make you breakfast once in a while? For once, you’re not busy on a Sunday!”

There. Guilt again. This time over her wasted efforts. Weakly, you admitted, “Thanks. But I’m afraid I don’t have an appetite.”

“No!” She burst out again, slamming both hands onto the granite and rising with the force of it. “That won’t do!” 

You flinched.

“Mr. Ackerman entrusted me with this mission!”

Oh. So that’s what this was about. The momentary swell of gratefulness for Levi’s concern morphed into remorse. There he was again, going out of his way, inconveniencing your housemates in a misguided attempt to pamper you. 

You felt sick. 

Pushing away, you slid off your seat. “Why don’t you tuck into this for me, Sasha? I’d like that better.” 

The nameless pressure was rising again from the pit of your gut. You had to get away. Had to be by yourself before the feeling drowned out everything else and you burst into tears. You were done crying. You wouldn’t cry anymore. You would resist all temptation; all urges to cry.

“I can’t do that! Levi explicitly said to make sure you ate! You can’t go around hungry all day! It’ll turn your head!” She clutched at you. You shook her off, blinding stumbling back in a rising flood of panic. Your chest constricted.

“It’s fine.” The words hitched at your throat. “I’m fine. I just need -”

You held your arms out, protectively, but Sasha was still coming towards you. Backing you into a corner. You babbled assurances that she didn’t hear, didn’t understand, or didn’t care about. You couldn’t decide which was worse. 

Cold touched and bloomed over your back. You’d hit the refrigerator and could go no further. No matter how hard you pressed back, you couldn’t get away.

“No, Sasha, please…”

The tightness in your chest widened; expanded until it filled, like poured concrete, the entirety of your ribcage. Until it crowded out everything else. Your voice ached; felt like acid. Tears prickled at your eyes. Sasha was still coming, arms outstretched. To hug. To hold you down. Her face was pulled into a mask of concern, lips moving with phrases of comfort.

It’s all right. What’s the matter? You’ll feel better. Let me make you feel better. Come here. That doesn’t hurt, see? I told you. Don’t be scared. That’s a good girl. That’s daddy’s good girl. Let me hear your voice. Scream for me, baby. Let daddy make you feel good. Tell daddy you feel good -

The voices warped. Suddenly it wasn’t Sasha anymore and you weren’t at the Embassy House kitchen anymore. Suddenly you were naked and on fire and the soothing lilt was a mirage - a mask melting into parts of Nile Dawk: the hard set of his jaw, the malicious glint of his eyes. Rasping voices. Laughing leers. Rough hands coming down onto your shoulders.

You screamed. Irrational with panic, you shoved at the body in front of you and dashed like a hunted rabbit, stumbling against the corner of the kitchen island with your heart in your throat, pursued by a very real phantom cloud of terror. You thundered up the backstairs and locked yourself in your room, alarmed voices echoing in your wake.

Clutching your ears, you dropped to the floor and stayed there, forcibly blocking out the pounding at your door and the rattling of the handle. Sasha’s voice - Sasha again, definitely, this time - strained with concern, rose above all else. You cowered under it, elbows to knees and forehead to the rug. 

Leave me alone. I’m fine. Leave me alone.

But the words never made it out of your mouth.

Your skin hurt where the denim squeezed against your injuries. The deeper you curled in on yourself, the harder it pinched. Your first shudders faded into a strange sort of relief. A drop of calm washed over you.

Your hands fell. With a dull, experimental epiphany, you let them find the backs of your thighs and dug in as hard as you could against the thick fabric.

It hurt. It felt good, like the gradual release of dark moths of guilt. You did it again. And again. And again, the action never failing to unclench just a little bit of the pent-up tension inside. Insane with ecstasy, you pinched and scratched, chasing the wave after wave of vindication that doused you.

Maybe Nile Dawk and Reiner Braun were on to something. Maybe you really were a dirty whore who deserved to be hurt. A bitch who got off being abused.

You wanted more. Clawing through your clothes became insufficient. You craved the pain. As long as it hurt, you could see yourself as a victim. As long as you were a victim, you could forgive yourself - justify the worry you caused Levi, the imposition upon Erwin, the scandal on the Embassy -

The clothes came off and then there was nothing more keeping you from tearing into your own flesh. You revisited bruises and tender red welts, breaking skin and plowing bloody trenches to the tune of penitence behind closed eyes; contrition and relief from panting lips. 

The pain was beatific.

\---

The most probable candidates, M.P.’s who gave Maria the biggest favours since you began your run at Parliament, were all gathered in Erwin’s office. Majority and Minority party members alike, they were all older than Erwin and confused about why this young newcomer had asked them to a meeting at so late an hour. 

“I’m glad you gentlemen obliged me.” Erwin leaned against his desk as he addressed the private room. His audience were in varying states of attention. A few sat politely but most of them milled about, glancing when he began to speak only to return to peering out behind his window blinds.

“I called you in here because I know all of you have spent at least one night with Ambassador Ackerman’s Chief of Staff.”

That caught their attention. Faced snapped forwards. Eyes narrowed and mouths opened to protest. Erwin placatingly raised his hands.

“I’m not here to start anything.” Some of his audience regarded him warily but let him continue. “On the contrary, I’m here to warn you that Nile Dawk is planning to expose what I know - what I am telling you now - to the media in a bid to ‘take Parliament down with him’.”

The M.P.’s exchanged glances. Finally, one old man, hair dyed a youthful black, piped up, “How do we know you’re not putting us on, Smith?”

Erwin pushed off from the edge of his desk, walked round, and sat behind it instead. Those who were sitting down leaned forward, while those who feigned disinterest finally, fully turned towards him. 

“You can see for yourself. The Prime Minister’s office has been notified of today’s session. And also informed that he is not to attend. But he will come today. Roughly five minutes before session, he will address the media and the people from the gates of Parliament. He will disclose Parliament’s bedroom politicking and will name all those who took part in it. Including himself and Hoover.”

The men crowded together; exchanged words. One repeated, “ _Including_ himself and Hoover? Isn’t that -”

“Unreasonable? Suicidal?” Erwin folded his hands together. “Certainly. But according to my sources, Nile Dawk isn’t in his most stable mind now.”

“And what do you get out of telling us?” Several eyes narrowed at him, all of them suspicious. 

Erwin’s hands came apart; lifted in the mimicry of a shrug, and dropped, palms up, onto his desk. “Ambassador Ackerman and I are old school friends and I owe him a favour. Naturally, then, I’m interested in seeing the Aid Law implemented. For that to happen, I need a working Parliament, and a public that perceives it as good and well-meaning.”

This explanation was acceptable to the rattled men, who concerned themselves next with panic. Confused and too personally invested to think up any viable schemes of their own on such short notice, they looked to Erwin for answers. 

“Five minutes to session! Dawk was probably thinking we’d all have locked ourselves up in executive session, ignorant of whatever it is he’s doing!”

“We’ve got to stop him!”

“Take him into the building!”

“No, discipline him on the spot!”

Erwin let them argue amongst themselves for a little while. Once they’d worked themselves up to highly irked states, he mildly suggested, “Why not let me handle this? I’ve spoken to Parliamentary security. They’ll invite Mr. Dawk to my office when he arrives. I’ll talk to him. But I might be late to session.”

The chorus of relieved assents and the promises that they wouldn’t let session begin without him told Erwin everything he needed to hear.

“One last thing,” put in an overly curious one who squinted an eye when he interrogated, or interpellated, “How did you know about Nile Dawk’s plans?”

Erwin relaxed; even managed a boyish smile, all upturned eyebrows and guileless expression. “Believe it or not, Hoover snitched to me.”

Another M.P. snorted. “What? You’re friends now?”

Erwin laughed. “Maybe Hoover decided he couldn’t throw his lot in with Nile Dawk anymore.” Then he indicated his desk clock. “Nile should be arriving in a little bit. And session hall should be open by now.”

His guests got to their feet, nodding and murmuring rambled conversation. Party mates clapped his back, while non-party mates, inspired by the sense of kinship created by the disclosure of secrets, hastily shook his hand. 

“We’ll get going. Good man, Smith. Thanks.”

Erwin saw them to the door. “Just remember my Aid Law. Don’t let anything sabotage it.”

“Ah. We’ll take care of it for you. Cheers, man.”

And so they left in conversation as warm as the wary silence in which they had come. Erwin shut his door, scanned his office, and took stock of the modest collection of liquor displayed on a little bar cart beside his wall-to-wall bookcase.

He picked out a bottle of Cognac - a Pasquet XO - and set it down along with two glasses, on his coffee table. Then he fished out a pack of premium cigarettes procured just for that day and put it down beside the bottle.

Let Nile think he went through all this trouble. The man was easier to talk to when he was - or felt he was - all buttered up.

He had just finished his preparations when his desk phone rang. Erwin sauntered over and pressed the loudspeaker button. It was the head of security.

“P.M. approaching, sir.”

“Same instructions. Straight to my office. Handle him delicately. Make sure his mouth stays closed.”

There was a moment of silence as security tracked Nile’s movements from one CCTV feed to another. Then, “Aye, Mr. Smith. P.M.’s just come into the compound. We’ll be up at your office in a bit.”

\---

The Prime Minister burst in when usually he swaggered. Erwin looked up from his desk, then rose.

“Nile.”

“What the hell are you doing, Erwin?” The Prime Minister swatted away his offer of a handshake. “I’m uninvited to one session and already you’re trying to take over my place? Fancy yourself Prime Minister now?” he sniped, red-faced with humiliated fury. “First order of business is to get security to march your predecessor to your office like a kid caught stealing from the cookie jar?”

Nile was primed to fight, all clenched fists and hulking postures. Erwin addressed him calmly, hands in pockets. “I asked you here for both our sakes.” Gesturing towards the sofa and the bottle of Pasquet, “Sit. Have a drink with me.”

Nile glared. Erwin’s desk clock had not been returned to its original position. Its face still stared out at the room. “Session is starting,” he pointed out; tense; suspicious.

The other followed his gaze. Indifferently, “They can start without me. I’m sure there’s already a quorum.”

This appeased Nile. He visibly relaxed, for the first-time wondering whether Erwin truly intended to usurp his position, or whether the whole ploy was his own imagining, and let himself be led to the sofa. Erwin sat opposite him, poured them both a drink, and slid one glass across the table. Nile took a whiff, then downed a mouthful.

“Good, isn’t it? One of my favourites,” Erwin said disarmingly. He peered into his glass, swirled the amber liquid around, and sniffed. “At least twenty-five years old. Special occasions only.” Raising his glass to Nile, he took a little sip. 

“You didn’t call me here to extol the virtues of Cognac.”

He chuckled. “No. But I thought you might as well get something out of seeing me.” He took a mouthful, swished it around, and swallowed appreciatively. “I’m a bourbon man myself, but I hear you prefer Cognac. This hits the spot, doesn’t it?”

Nile shot him a scornful look. His glass was already empty.

“I asked you here,” Erwin finally said, the stem of the crystal tulip balanced between his fingers, “because I thought we might be able to come to an arrangement less drastic than what you had planned for today.”

Nile sneered. “And how would you know what I had planned for today?”

The other smiled lopsidedly. “It’s not hard to guess. If I were in your shoes, I’d probably be doing the same thing.”

A grin split across the Prime Minister’s face, triumphant. Validated. That Hoover boy really knew nothing about politics. “Scared of what I have to say?”

“We won’t even have to get to that if you’ll hear me and Levi out.”

“Levi?” Nile recoiled at the name. The flash of momentary panic that darted across his face was not difficult to see. “You’re expecting that bastard today? Here?”

Erwin shook his head, carrying on in tones as calm as Nile’s was unnerved. “Not today, no. But we were hoping you’d join us for dinner sometime. Say -”

“How do I know you’re not putting me on? The lot of you?” Nile flushed, his discomfiture at the mention of Levi more palpable than he believed. “Whatever it is you have to say, you can say it now!”

“I can tell you the gist of it,” Erwin agreed with a shrug. “I was going to offer to talk to the disciplinary committee -” he glanced at his wrist watch, “- today, at session, if you’ll agree. But I understand Levi has concessions of his own that I am not privy to.”

“In exchange for me keeping my trap shut?”

Erwin’s brows rose and fell in assent. He examined what remained of his drink and set it down, opting instead to cross his legs and rest his intertwined hands atop them. “You’ll always have that information to disclose. Whether today or next week - what does it matter when you announce your big secret?”

Nile snickered. “Look at you. Pretending to be so concerned when you’re really shitting yourself silly thinking about all the ways I could ruin you. Aren’t you, Erwin?”

The younger M.P. returned a mild look. “You can ruin me any time you like, Nile. But you might turn out to like our proposition more.”

The Prime Minister guffawed at this. His eyes shone with gleeful victory. “So you’re scared of me. You see? I have you by the goddamn balls and suddenly you’re playing nice!”

“I never found the need to burn bridges. Especially not with my colleague and Prime Minister.”

“Listen to you,” Nile snorted. “Boot-licking. Having to acknowledge me as Prime Minister still. Having to let your ambitions slide. Aren’t you fucking ashamed? Humiliated?”

Erwin’s pleasant expression never wavered. “We all benefit from a little humility, I suppose.” He glanced at his watch again and dusted off his hands. “Shall we expect you tomorrow night? The Eldian?”

“Eldian,” Nile repeated, giving him a pointed look.

“Your favourite weekend haunt, I hear.”

“Tomorrow night isn’t a weekend, anymore.”

“Oops?”

“Fucking hell.” Nile shook his head, at once amused and derisive. Erwin’s unguarded grin made him look absolutely dumb, Nile Dawk realised with a start, and then with a rush of satisfaction. Perhaps, for all of that man’s life, he was the only one who managed to make Erwin-fucking-Smith look like a total idiot.

“All right, all right. I’ll see you and Levi.”

“Seven o’clock.”

“Seven,” Nile echoed. They were beginning to get up when he suddenly remembered. “That woman. Will she be there?”

“I don’t know,” Erwin said honestly. “Levi didn’t say.”

“Bring her. I refuse to sit down to a meeting with you two if I can’t at least have something good to look at.”

“I’ll pass on the message.”

“Have her come looking presentable.”

“They always are, Maria’s diplomats.”

Nile gawped at him, exasperated. “Don’t you understand anything, Erwin? When you ask that woman to spend the night with you, do you fuck her or do you play goddamn Uno? Do you not know how ‘presentable’ that woman can make herself?”

Erwin hummed his reply and checked his watch again. “I’ll relay everything to Levi,” he promised again. “And we’ll see you tomorrow night. But for now, I think I had better sit in on the disciplinary committee’s discussions.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m holding back for you. You better make it worth my while. Talk to Minority, too,” Nile requested in a moment of weakness. “Disciplinary committee's membership is equally split. Put in a good word for me.”

The other nodded. “I will. Truce, Nile.”

With a final, smiling shake of the head, the Prime Minister finally shook Erwin’s proffered hand. “Truce,” he agreed, and saw himself out.

As soon as he heard the distant elevator doors ding open and closed in the otherwise deserted floor, Erwin, too, began making his way down. He’d had everyone wait long enough. It was time to open session.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Levi's silk tie - helloooo, K! Lifted from our conversations ;D
> 
> *Pasquet XO - Jean-Luc Pasquet XO Grande Champagne Cognac. Recommended by the Gentleman's Gazette. Had to google it because I don't (can't) drink and know nothing about liquor. I headcanon Erwin to be an occasional, social drinker, but a very particular connoisseur.
> 
> *crystal tulip - brandy and Cognac are drunk from stubby, tulip-shaped stemmed glasses. For those who didn’t know until now, like me. haha
> 
> hi. Still here? Thanks. Thank you thank you also to those who said such nice things about their experience reading this story. Your kind words have all been super encouraging.
> 
> A lot has happened in the past week. Work began with the easing of quarantine restrictions but then something scary happened so I'm off work (at least, office work) again for another week. I'll do my best to still post regularly, but I don't know how often "regular" is. I hope I can get a bulk of writing done this week to keep up.
> 
> Apart from the above (^), this chapter took so long to write because it's completely new. I felt that there was a plot hole of sorts between the last and the following chapter. Worse, I realised that the plot hole was a characters plot hole. All feelings. Whee. And I suck at feelings. So I had to sit myself down and wade through and internalise all the potential feels before I could write anything. It was hard. It was draining. At times I felt weird writing it and worried that it might be boring (even though it was necessary) because there was no bam-bam-bam action going on. So if anyone has anything to say about the way I contort my characters' emotions (especially those who write character-driven stories!!), good or bad, please let me know. I'd love to know how I'm doing and how I can improve. :)
> 
> Sorry to turn this into a journal. I just really have nowhere else to vent. (haha)
> 
> Hope everyone's doing well and keeping safe. <3 Thank you for reading!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The daddies get disgustingly corny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter by almost eight hundred words! Yeay! I was getting concerned over my wordiness.

Parliament was a wasp’s nest. Irate M.P.’s called down from weekend getaways sat clustered together griping over, no doubt, over the Prime Minister’s latest scandal. Their voices filled the session hall and echoed all the way to the very beams of the vaulted ceiling. 

Erwin Smith walked in barely noticed. One of the older M.P.’s, one of the gentlemen who had just come from his office, nodded hello. The group around him talked loudly about suspending Nile Dawk and Bertholdt Hoover while the two of them cranked out their explanations. 

As Erwin made his way to the front of the theatre, the other M.P.’s - his friends all of a sudden - wound up their private discussions. People dragged chairs back to their places. Over at the spectators’ seats, Eld Jinn and Levi Ackerman sat separated only by a few chairs. Neither of them had struck up conversation with the other, but both of them gave Erwin meaningful looks, Eld’s infinitely more affable than Levi’s.

The M.P.’s settled down. Erwin stood by the bailiff. A clerk scurried down the aisle, towed the microphone stand, and set it up in front of the Majority Party Leader.

The bailiff cast him a funny look, for a moment casting his eyes up, up, to the Prime Minister’s dais that Erwin, as Parliament’s Second-in-Command, was expected to occupy. He received a tiny, smiling, shake of the head. Uneasy, the bailiff turned to the theatre, niggled at the tightly-buttoned collar embedded in his corpulent neck, and reluctantly called session open.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Erwin began. Above him, the Prime Minister’s empty throne winked in the people’s subconsciousness. Here was the Majority Party Leader, resonated in their minds, standing amongst the people. Foregoing the false glory of a temporary seat at the Prime Minister’s bench.

Here was Erwin Smith, the highest-ranking amongst them now, standing with the bulk of Parliament. Here he was, the second-in-command, with us, with honour and right, against Nile Dawk.

The poor bailiff seated across the theatre was unfortunately one of the very few who did not see, did not feel, and therefore did not understand, the significance of this single, humble demonstration.

“Session was called today to discuss disciplinary matters against Messers. Dawk and Hoover,” Erwin paused, this time to glance pointedly in Levi’s direction, “who are accused of outraging one of Ambassador Ackerman’s diplomats.”

The said Ambassador Ackerman politely inclined his head. In the room full of politicians in casual weekend attire, he was the only one in a suit. It was difficult not to see him, and even more difficult to not take him seriously.

“But overnight - perhaps some of you have already heard of it - another sort of news has broken.” Erwin addressed Parliament again, looking in turn at every single one of the men he had just met in his office and settling finally on the black-haired old one who looked the most uncertain about this entire thing. “Mr. Grisha Jaeger was arrested early dawn for suspicion of complicity in and financing of Titan activities.”

He saw the old M.P.’s eyes widen. Watched understanding flicker on his face and reflect also on the faces of his mates. Trembling and bug-eyed and over-anxious to seize upon this, the old politician bellowed, “Nile Dawk’s sponsor?”

He forgot his microphone, but his voice carried over the whole of session hall, his message clearly heard by his equally guilty, equally anxious confederates. One by one, all those M.P.s most interested in silencing Nile Dawk stirred righteous anger in their own corners of Parliament until it sounded as if everybody, all at once, was accusing Nile Dawk and Bertholdt Hoover of terrorism.

As calls for investigation and a Parliamentary inquiry into the details of Grisha Jaeger’s activities grew louder and more frequent, Erwin turned to the disciplinary committee, a handful of M.P.s from both parties selected by raffle.

“What does the Committee resolve to do?” he prompted. “Or do you need more time?”

Its members exchanged looks then nodded all around. The Chair, a woman from Minority who’d worked and been party mates with Nile Dawk for years, said, “The Committee has resolved to direct Messers. Nile Dawk and Bertholdt Hoover to explain the charges of sexual assault brought by the Marian Embassy. And -” she straightened, rising, it seemed, with virtuous decision, “ - we have also resolved to investigate Mr. Dawk’s connections with Grisha Jaeger, and to initiate disciplinary action if warranted.”

Someone whooped and began banging the tables to chants of “Hear! Hear!”

The committee looked pleased with itself. Its Chair had just swivelled around, looking for the source of the support when another, clearer and steadier, voice said,

“I move to suggest that the Committee direct Dawk and Hoover to submit their explanations within seven calendar days, and also move that Parliament suspend them both pending explanation and investigation.”

It was another one of Erwin’s new allies. No sooner had that one said his piece and sat down than another, this one unable to keep the grin off his face, rushed up with a hasty “I second the motion!”

For propriety’s sake, Erwin paused to scan the room. But this latest speaker, determined to get his way, refused to sit and openly glared his way around session hall as if daring anyone to challenge him.

No one did. The gentleman smoothed his shirt - a criminally bright printed tee on top of khaki bermuda shorts and beach sandals - completely forgetting that he was not in a suit. He eased himself back into his seat only when Erwin said,

“The motion is passed without objection. The house suspends Mr. Nile Dawk and Mr. Bertholdt Hoover pending explanation and pending investigation. As for the suggestion to the Committee…?”

The chairperson blazed with importance. It was amazing, Erwin thought, how quickly people could condemn others in the latter’s absence. Swept up in the spirit of prosecution, her voice rang loud and clear.

“The Committee gives Messers. Dawk and Hoover ten days to explain, and presents no objection to the imposition of preventive suspension in the meantime.”

Session adjourned on a unanimous vote that day. Levi was clearly satisfied, even though he had been relegated to no more than a symbol; a figurehead graciously receiving sympathies and messages of support against the urge to grouse that you weren’t dead so could everybody stop acting like this was a fucking funeral?

Erwin approached Levi as one of the gaggle of M.P.s who’d come to speak to him on their way out, and signalled for Eld to wait for them. Once session hall had more or less emptied, he heard Levi heave an almighty sigh and mutter under his breath,

“Fucking finally.”

He chuckled. Introduced Levi and Eld. Levi eyed the blond. “Heard Grisha’s shitty situation is your handiwork. Well done.”

Eld’s eyebrows rose. “‘Grisha’? You know each other?”

Levi made an annoyed sound. “His brat is one of my staff. I call the brat Jaeger. Can’t stomach calling the father the same.”

The other looked even more surprised by this. He wanted to ask more about this Jaeger brat and was just about to phrase the question when Levi shot him one of those fabled Ackerman glares - passed on in stories but never actually spotted in polite company. 

Eld heard that the Ambassador bestowed the glare only upon persons he approved of. For some reason, that made him feel rather proud of himself.

“Now that you two know each other and get along,” Erwin directed those last words to Levi, “you may be pleased to know that you will both be attending dinner tomorrow. With myself and Nile Dawk.”

Levi’s face contorted briefly before smoothing out into an unreadable mask. The last of the attendees had just left. Out of habit, Eld scanned session hall for movement. Nothing. Empty. They were all alone.

“What the actual hell, Erwin.”

“Bought us time today,” was all the other said by way of explanation. To Eld, “I’d like to go over everything on Nile with you this afternoon.”

“Then you won’t need me tomorrow.”

Erwin grimaced. “I know Nile’s a character and you’d rather spend the evening with your wife and kid, but your presence tomorrow will do me good. Lend me some credibility.”

Levi and Erwin were exchanging swift looks. Eld understood that he was needed here only for as long as it took to set the appointment. Everything else would be explained in time. “All right, all right. We’ll go over everything. But make it tomorrow morning. I promised my daughter I’d join her tea party this afternoon.”

“Lovely,” Levi deadpanned.

Eld laughed, louder than the remark probably called for. He held a hand out to the caustic ambassador. “The documents you sent me helped plenty. Thank you, Mr. Ackerman.”

“Name’s Levi,” the other said, accepting the handshake with an embarrassed scowl. “See you tomorrow.”

Once the doors swung shut on Eld’s back, Erwin said, “So. About Nile.”

This time, it was Levi who cast a look around session hall. Unimpressed, “You really want to discuss that here?”

“It didn’t bother Eld,” Erwin shrugged. “And  _ he’s _ head of Intel.”

Levi decided Erwin didn’t have to know how embarrassingly easy it had been for Armin Arlert to hack into session hall’s security cameras. He chose to roll his eyes instead. “Walk with me.” And only when they had both reached the parking lot and were both securely inside his car did he ask, “What about Nile?”

Erwin related everything - from Bertholdt Hoover’s phone call to the back-to-back meetings he conducted prior to session. Levi listened without comment until Erwin, ruefully, passed on Nile’s request for your presence.

“Hell, no.”

“I think so, too, Levi. But -”

“No, Smith.” Levi’s tone was sharp, cutting, and final. 

Erwin shifted, twisting towards Levi and scrutinising the man. The engine was off, but Levi gripped the steering wheel like he was flooring gas and about to crash the car. “What’s going on, Levi? How is she?”

“ _ She _ is not going to see hide or hair of Nile Dawk.” His voice grated from the depths of his throat. “I will not allow it.”

“Think of how persuasive her very presence can be!” Erwin argued. “She doesn’t have to say a word and we will be right there. The two of us! Nile can’t -”

Levi exploded. “Are you fucking daft, Erwin?” He thumped at the steering wheel, missing the horn by an inch. With his deadliest look, “How could you dare to ask something like that of her? After all she’s been through! After all  _ your _ goddamn Prime Minister has done to her, you still have the gall to ask me -  _ to my fucking face _ \- to drag her to some shitty meeting to meet the piece of shit himself!”

Levi was not one to easily lose his breath. But right then he was flushed with anger and heaving with emotion. Erwin’s eyes narrowed.

“She was stable when I let Eren bring her back. What’s happened between then and now? What happened to my girl?”

“Fuck if I know,” Levi spat, dragging a hand over his face. Frustrated, “She was fine this morning. I left Braus in charge of her. Now the brats are calling one after the other saying she’s lost her mind.”

Erwin’s entire expression tightened. 

Levi shook his head once; hard, to clear his thoughts. “Apparently, she locked herself in her room. Completely hysterical. Nobody know what the hell to do except for fucking Connie Springer who wants to break in through her window.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “So I need to hurry back. Right now.”

Erwin almost lunged forward. “I’ll go with you,” he blurted out.

Levi stared at him like he, too, had gone mad. “Are you out of your blasted mind?”

Erwin had never been more serious about anything more in his life. For half a day, he’d driven himself to distraction with thoughts of you, wanting to see you, to touch you, to talk to you. To see for himself, with his own two eyes, that you were all right. And now that he knew you were not…

They stared each other down. Then, “Get the fuck out, Erwin. Get the fuck out, crawl back to your office or go home and clear your damn head,” Levi growled. “I do not need to work with someone who’s shat his brains out.”

Erwin returned the glare. “I need to be with her, Levi. She was all right when she was with me. My girl needs me -”

“She’s not your girl!” Levi thundered. He hated Erwin Smith sometimes. Outright loathed his guts. Abhorred him most when he let obsession cloud his better sense. When he was most like Nile Dawk, charging into a situation ass first.

“You can’t even understand her properly!” Levi sniped. “Can’t you remember why she left with Jaeger in the first place? Because  _ you can’t be seen with her _ . Because in the thick of this mess, you can’t be suspected - by anybody, even those worthless tabloids - of having the slightest bit of relationship with her. People shouldn’t even be able to imagine you capable of screwing her!”

Part of Levi wished he had suggested taking this up in Erwin’s office. There, at least, he’d have plenty of space to physically knock some sense into that thick blond skull. 

“Do you know why? Because she can’t stand to ruin your shot at being Prime Minister! So you better see this through!” He seethed, nearing the end of his long, uncharacteristic rant. The fury was draining from his face, leaving only a long, long exhaustion. “You better make damn sure you become Prime Minister, because I’m not handing her over to a mere M.P., Majority Party Leader, second in command be damned.”

Erwin stared. Levi glared at the dim concrete post painted a fluorescent yellow  _ B12 _ . The rest of the basement parking space was empty save for a handful of vehicles. Erwin’s was somewhere in the void.

“Get out,” Levi sighed once more. At last. “I have to go back.”

Erwin shot him one last, long look. The door popped open. He stepped out, remembered, and peered briefly back into the car. Tightly, “Bring her tomorrow.”

Levi’s jaw knotted. He remained glowering forward. “Just because I support you doesn’t mean I’ll let you use her to get to your ambition.”

Erwin shook his head. “It isn’t that. I just want my girl to watch Nile Dawk dig his own grave.” And without waiting for a reply, he shut the door and walked away.

\---

Levi found you unmoving against the frame of your bed, your head resting on the edge of the mattress. He had knocked only once before letting himself in with the master key he found still tucked inside the nightstand drawer in Marco’s former room. 

According to the brats huddled at your door, it had been hours since you last made a sound. One dared to tremulously wonder whether you were still alive. Levi silenced that chit with a single dangerous look and sent them all on their way.

Despite the heavy curtains, your room was lighter in the early afternoon, and he could make out the angry streaks, the crusted lesions on your once immaculate skin, as you slumped with your back to him. Swallowing any comment, Levi toed his shoes off, padded over, and sat down opposite you, cross-legged, his head on the mattress a foot or so away from yours. Behind you, lost somewhere in your unmade bed, your cellphone blinked steady appraisals of notifications.

“Hey,” he said, tone deadpan but gaze full, roving over your face; reaching into your soul.

You stared blankly at him.

“It went well,” he said conversationally. “Better than we expected. Erwin pulled through.”

You blinked, and he imagined a little tremor titter through you.

“Those bastards will be disciplined. Every last one of them.” Levi spoke so calmly you were tempted to close your eyes and pretend he was reading you a wonderful fairytale and putting you to sleep. “It will be all right. All of it.”

For the briefest moment, his gaze darted to the hands lying limp on your lap. Red-streaked, with blood-spattered fingernails. Even the sides of your legs were stained with dried blots, little mirror images of the warzone that no doubt ravaged your back and thighs. 

He swallowed. You watched the movement at his neck - a flicker of a dashing shadow. When he spoke again, he sounded completely casual. “So how was your day?”

You were motionless except for your eyes, which stuttered across his sideways face before dropping to the floor between you, framed by your bare knees and the caps of his black-clothed ones. 

“I want to die,” you moaned. It came out convincingly sepulchral.

“You can’t.” He didn’t even flinch. “I won’t let you.”

A keening protest rose from your lungs. He made an impatient noise but his expression remained soft. He looked at you and sat with you as he did in university; as he hadn’t done in so long, Levi the Diplomat melting back to Levi in University, with his easier smiles and a much more optimistic outlook on life.

It was like sliding back into a strange, interrupted dream.

He brought an arm up under his head. The Levi before you now. Diplomat-Levi-in-University.

“You can’t die because you can’t leave me.” His words were a measured cadence; all gentle reason. “You can’t leave me because I need you. I need you with me. You’re the only one I trust to run this shit show. And I need you tomorrow, at our meeting with Nile Dawk.”

You jerked at the name. One warm hand shot out to your knee, grounding you. You didn’t flinch at the unexpected touch. Never with Levi.

“Tomorrow, Nile Dawk is going to offer himself to us. To you. I need you to tell him exactly how you want him to avenge you against himself. Against Grisha Jaeger.”

He spoke so earnestly you lifted your head. Hei mirrored the action with a smile, his stare loaded.

“Do you hear me? I need you tomorrow. And next week. Next month. Next year. I will need you, always and forever.” His fingers tightened once, then let go. “That’s why you’re not allowed to die.”

You cranked in a breath. Jerked it out. Reeled it in; unspooled it out, with every inhalation imbibing Levi and his unshakeable confidence, and with every exhalation, scattering everything unpleasant.

“You don’t have to hurt yourself,” he cooed. “Why fight just to live when you can live to pay back those who hurt you? Live to collect from those who wanted to watch you die?”

You licked your lips. 

“Erwin and I - we’re giving you that chance tomorrow. Don’t you want to take it?”

His eyes, smouldering steel, layered in cool baritone, were hypnotic. He still had that effect on you. That power of painting over your inner demons and scrawling over them whatever he wished you to believe.

You found yourself nodding. Slowly.

“You have to pull yourself together for this. You can grieve, but you cannot break down. Can you do that?”

You nodded again. More vehemently this time. He smiled. Cupped your face and smoothed your hair.

“That’s my girl. You’re all right now.”

\---

For a change of pace, he said (though you suspected it was really so he could keep an eye on you), he took you back to his place. Besides, you heathens never kept any real food in the kitchen so how was he supposed to cook for you?

“You’ve spent enough time cooped up here with these brats anyway,” you heard him mutter under his breath. Levi cast a disdainful look at your discarded skinny jeans, flung your closet open, raided it, and fished out a knee-length shirtdress you barely even remembered you owned.

“Wear this.” He tossed it onto the bed and shook out your knit sweater. “And this. Should keep you warm and comfortable.”

You hesitated.

He caught your self-conscious twitch and the way one hand fanned over your bent legs as if to shield them from view. “They won’t show,” he promised.

You bit your mouth, silencing the budding protest, and lowered your head. Levi knelt; peered at your face until you tentatively looked up to meet his gaze.

“Nothing will show,” he repeated kindly. “Nobody will know unless you want them to. I’ll clean and bandage you up. You’ll be good as new. You won’t get blood on your clothes.”

When you looked at him, you thought of Erwin. Remembered how you stripped naked for him. Sprawled on his bed as he fussed over you. Then your imagination darted to Levi asking the same of you, wanting to treat deeper wounds. Horrific, self-inflicted wounds he had not yet seen. Wounds that would repulse anyone - you could feel the crusty furrows under the pads of your fingers and  _ you  _ were disgusted. So much more would -

You were beginning to form the word “No” when he touched you again, the roughened skin of a man’s hand closing around your knee. Anchoring you with its very human sensation. 

“You’re not ugly.” He always seemed to know your thoughts. “I will never think it. And neither will Erwin,” he added after a split-second’s decision. “So neither should you.”

Everything about him was guileless. Levi never lied to you, and you had no reason to think he was going to start now. 

Vision swimming, “Okay.”

He worked on you in the dim light of a single lamp, wiping your hands, rising several times to rinse out his washcloth before returning to swipe clean streaks amongst the red on your palms, and bits of blood and - you shuddered to think of it now - skin, from under your fingernails.

“Levi,” you dared to whisper, “Why do you -”

You sat knee-to-knee. If you leaned forward, you could rest against his chest; slide down to lie on his lap. And you knew he would let you. As you were now, you knew he would allow you anything; forgive you everything.

Once upon a time, maybe when you were in university and things were simpler between the two of you, you might have taken advantage of that. Might have asked to be held and tumbled him to the floor despite, or precisely because of, his protestations of filth and disgust.

You couldn’t - wouldn’t - dare ask such a thing of Levi now.

His face was shrouded by his hair. He didn’t look up from his work but you saw his lips move and heard him answer, “Because I’m responsible for you.”

“You’re responsible for everyone in the Embassy.”  _ You don’t act like this with them. _

He shook his head, the action so small it manifested solely in the tiny ripples of his hair. “You are my responsibility,” he repeated. Gloved by the washcloth now gone cold, you thought you felt him squeezing your fingertips for a moment in his.

“You’re my personal responsibility.” Then he was working again, rubbing circles, delicately fishing grime from the borders of your nail beds. “From the day you decided to join foreign service because of me, to the day you were deployed, every mission, every disgusting task I sent you on… From those moments and everyday afterwards, you became my personal responsibility. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He looked up at you through his lashes, grey burning amber in the orange light, and suddenly it seemed as if he stuffed the whole universe in this moment; in this single, solitary revelation.

“Do you know why I let them call you my girl?” His voice was liquid mercury. “Have you ever wondered by the others are called Chiefs of Staff but I let them refer to you as the Ambassador’s woman?”

Mouth dry, you shook your head.

There was no territorial possessiveness in his tone. He spoke quietly. Matter-of-factly. 

“It reminds them that I watch over you. So that when they think of hurting you, they will second-guess themselves. So that when they do hurt you -” the washcloth, drenched with this body warmth, came round your wrists, his grip behind them firm, “ - they know who will avenge you.”

You shuddered.

“No matter where you go, no matter what you do, you will always be my girl. Do you understand?”

Around the bends of his knees, Levi’s slacks had crinkled. Even under the weak light, you could make out the layers of faint creases on his shirt. The blot of unidentifiable moisture on his cuff. The snapping movements of tendons under his pale, delicate dermis, palpitating as he diligently washed you.

Your heart swelled. Mimicking him, you reached out; put a hand on his knee. Met his eyes as he looked from your hand to your face. “Yes. I understand.”

It was on that note, both of you feeling lighter and more able to ease back into some of your old banter, that Levi spirited you a way across the city to his place. Ushering you into his sterile, ultra-minimalist home, he hung up his keys, pushed up his sleeves, and challenged you to demand anything for dinner.

Sheepishly, you mumbled, “Canned mushroom soup risotto.”

He smirked. Folded his arms across his chest. “Real food, brat. I don’t keep canned soup.”

“I know.” And chuckling in half-hearted embarrassment, you produced a good-sized can from the voluminous folds of your sweater. “That’s why I smuggled some from the kitchen before we left,” you finished, shame-faced.

“The fuck?”

You hugged your stolen treasure. “Please, Levi?”

He rolled his eyes, a smile already tearing at his mouth. “You’re better off drinking salt.” But he held out his hand and as you turned your precious junk food over into his care, he waved you to a seat and set about doing exactly as you asked.

While he cooked, you fussed with your phone. Forgotten all day, it blinked with its burden of unattended messages. Most of them were regular, everyday things - news updates, weekend work requests that people couldn’t seem to wait for Monday morning to ask for...and a whole slew of text messages from Erwin.

You snuck a glance at Levi. He was busy with the stove, his back to you. Trying not to appear - or even to feel - too eager, you waded through the mundane notifications first. When you had skimmed all the news and scheduled all of Monday’s tasks, there was only Erwin’s text messages left, highlighted and in bold in your inbox. Unread. 

You moved to tap it open.

A dish plonked down in front of you. You started; nearly dropped your phone. Guiltily, you switched it off and abandoned it on your lap. Smiled crookedly at Levi. Salty, creamy mushroom smell hovered between you.

He lifted his brows. Eyes flickered down, in the direction of your phone, found itself obstructed by the opacity of the table, and flitted back up to you. Sat across you with only a cup of black tea, and set a spoon and a fork beside your plate.

Still smiling stiffly, you began eating under his watchful stare while secretly stroking the screen of your phone under the table. You were dying with curiosity.

“Is it that good?”

You froze, wide-eyed, the tines of your fork still caught between your lips. Around a mouthful, “What?”

Clicking his tongue, Levi reached across the table, swiped at a bit of sticky soup from the corner of your mouth, regarded it for a heartbeat, and scraped it off his fingers with his teeth. His brows furrowed a moment. “Huh.”

The fork slithered away. He took a draught of tea. Uninhibited, practically possessed, it seemed, by the ghost of your university self, you shovelled up a forkful of risotto and held it out to him.

“Try it properly.”

He accepted, chewed thoughtfully, and declared, “Brats’ food.” Then he hid his amusement behind his teacup. You feigned insult and ate with a vengeance. He finished his tea. Stood. Turned to rinse out his china.

Your phone returned from its temporary banishment. This time, when Levi returned to the table, you had managed to open Erwin’s thread of messages. In a fit of comical panic, you tossed your phone, nearly dropping it in your haste to stuff it back under the table.

He snorted. You ducked your head, humiliated.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I do it, too. I’m not going to turn into one of those no-phones-at-the-table activists.” His attention settled more deliberately on you. He regarded you like that spot of soup on his fingertip, then dropped his head down and away. “It’s not my business who you text.”

“Sorry,” you whispered. The curiosity was unbearable. Supremely awkward, you inched your phone back onto the table and unlocked it once more. Erwin’s messages, sent throughout the day, stared brightly back at you.

_ Good morning. How are you? I thought of you first thing today. _

_ Session now. Everyone’s asking about you. Be well. _

_ Levi told me. _

_ He’s more concerned than he lets on. We both are. _

_ I can’t stop worrying. If only I could see you. _

Then there followed a stretch of silence that lasted several hours. The last message was sent not long ago, while you and Levi were negotiating leaving the Embassy House for his place. You weren’t even thinking of your phone then. It was Levi who noticed the notification lights and pressed it into your hands.

As if he already knew.

You tore your gaze away. Studied Levi instead. He was still staring at his blank kitchen wall but, noticing you, tilted his head

“Well? What did that oaf have to say?”

Your brow pinched. “How did you -?”

The arm draped over the back of his chair came around. He sat straighter. “He couldn’t stop talking about you. Wanted to barge into the House when he heard about -” A gesture in lieu of words.

Your skin pricked. You fidgeted, rubbing knees and legs together. Wanting to hide. Where they stuck to your skin, the bandages felt alien and  _ so very there _ . Their adhesive made you itch.

Levi caught your retreating hands. “No,” he said, voice strained with emphasis. “Don’t.”

You stopped breathing. You stared at him. At his eyes and his mouth. At the parts and the whole of his face. Earnest. Awkward. Frustrated. 

“I know that bastard hasn’t - seen -” his forehead furrowed deeply, “...what I have. But I know it won’t change the way he..feels...about you.”

You gulped through the breathlessness. Your hands unclenched. Pressed against the wood of your seat, the bandages, unfamiliar gauze, itchy adhesives, and all, melted back into oblivion. 

“Feels, Levi?”

“Ah.” He raked at his hair. It flopped with every single one of his errant strands. “He’s -” he huffed. “Damn. Shouldn’t have put off telling you. But I didn’t trust him. Not then. That disgusting Casanova -”

“Tell me what?”

Sighing frustratedly through his nose, he gripped his hair, tugged, and let go. Sagged in surrender. “That he loves you.” He choked at the words, embarrassed to be saying them. “Erwin. Since University.”

For a moment you couldn’t speak. You and he sat across each other, Levi studying you, and you looking everywhere but at him. You blinked rapidly, mouth wordlessly opening and closing. Finally, with an uncertain, disbelieving giggle, you burbled,

“Why didn’t he tell me?”  _ All this time, why did he tell you but not me? _

“You know how he is.” Sometimes, it seemed to you that Levi and Erwin probably shared the same brain and read each other’s minds all the time. “He’s not much for empty sweet talk.” He said that with more satisfaction than you’d ever seen him talk about Erwin. (Or of any of the men who comprised your series of bungled relationships before you gave it up altogether in lieu of high-stakes seduction.)

“Levi,” you said, emboldened by his apparent approval of Erwin, “let’s go to the Ambassador’s Room. Tonight. Right now.”

He looked taken aback. Actually jerked back. “Now?”  _ In your state? Are you sure?  _ all went unsaid.

You nodded.

He thought it over for a whole minute. Then he pushed away from the table and you were at his heels, he was retrieving his keys, and before you knew it you were cruising through happy hour traffic. Levi never asked, even though the curiosity and concern whitened his knuckles and creased the middle of his forehead just a wee bit deeper.

“Thank you for everything, Levi,” you whispered. 

Under the winking alternations of shadows and white street lights, the wrinkle between his eyebrows smoothed. His grip on the steering wheel relaxed. He cast you a funny, skewed look, one side of his mouth twisting with his unspoken reply, and you had a vague notion that maybe you should have said those words earlier; a long, long time ago.

A new Club attendant met you at the elevator banks, to all appearances expecting you. She was about Marlowe’s age, and probably heard distorted rumours about her predecessor, which kept her resolutely staring at the floor as she explained that Mr. Smith had reserved the Ambassador’s Room for the rest of the night and put it at the lady’s disposal.

“Hear that?” Levi turned to you. But you weren’t listening anymore. You were straining forward against the hold he had on your elbow. Once the elevator opened, you tugged away and he let you go - with all of your adorable, wonderous, child-like eagerness, your enormous clothes, white sneakers, and unkempt waves. 

He trailed after you. Watched you practically skip to Room 49; watched you let yourself in without even pausing for thought. And freeze at the threshold. Suck in a long, full-body gasp.

Cold, overprotective dread spiked in his blood. Levi jogged forward, resisting the urge to run and yank you backwards as you disappeared through the threshold.

He caught the door before it slammed shut. Your name was half-out of his mouth -

His eyes widened. Jaw dropped. All words, all thoughts, died. He shuffled forward. Thought he heard the door close behind him, cutting off the tour-guide-like droning of Room 49’s new stewardess.

The Ambassador’s Room was bursting with flowers. Perfect blooms of every kind imaginable and available overflowed from every conceivable spare space, with not a single petal even so much as streaked with the faintest hint of wilt.

You were just as awe-struck as he. The aroma was overpowering in this carefully assembled jungle but you revelled in it, drinking in the cascades of orchid trails, the clumps of sunflowers and radiant spots of gerbera. Tulips littered the carpet and hydrangeas sprouted from the bar. Everything else, furniture and all, remained exactly the same, in all their old places.

You shuffled forward. Across the sofa lay long stems of lilies. And on the armchair - an image of Bertholdt flashed and melted harmlessly away - sat an enormous box of the most perfect crimson roses. Underneath it, neatly folded, was the thick grey hoodie Erwin lent you on Saturday.

Yesterday, you thought in a haze of realisation. You and he parted only yesterday.

From where he stood near the door, Levi watched you move the roses aside. Watched you unfurl the hoodie. Pick up the white card that fluttered from it onto the roses. Stared at your back as you read it.

He had to give it to Erwin, he mused, leaning against the door frame, which had mercifully been left bare. That big goof knew how to make a grand gesture.

His thoughts were interrupted by your happy noises. Levi returned to earth in time to see you hug that monstrous hoodie and bury your nose into its plush fabric, the white card clutched tightly in one hand. He watched you take several long whiffs before he realised your shoulders were shaking.

“Oi.” When it came to you, his worry was almost reflexive. He was striding towards you when you lifted your head and whirled around in your so-and-so square inches of foliage-free carpet. You were laughing.

Laughing with your face screwed merrily, the ache of that prominent purple bruise forgotten. “Levi,” you tried to say, but your voice wobbled and you couldn’t speak anymore. You thrust the card at him.

Typed (because Erwin’s longhand was a mortal sin) on it was an atrociously cheesy note. Levi scoffed and handed it back.

“You don’t get it,” you whined. If you smiled any more, he surmised your face might split apart from the pressure.

“No,” he agreed, ruffling your hair. “I wasn’t let in on the code.”

He missed that pealing laughter that followed. As Levi smiled along, he found himself thinking that if Erwin could honestly promise to keep you laughing like this (once more, genuinely, and innocently) for the rest of your life, maybe he could be persuaded to rethink the Prime Ministerial qualification he imposed.

At seven thirty-four that evening, according to the timestamp on your inbox, M.P. Erwin Smith said,  _ I have reconquered the Ambassador’s Room for you. _

And at eleven-oh-five that night, on a white card without a timestamp, Erwin promised,  _ If you’ll let me, I’ll rebuild your world. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Erwin's handwriting - I don't think it's ugly. I just imagine it as a longhand that evolved into a scrawl so hurried it's become a little difficult to read. I also imagine he writes with a fountain pen. A vintage Montblanc 149, medium/broad nib. (Totally not just because I'm a whore for fountain pens and especially adore the classic look of a Meisterstuck!! <3)
> 
> Aaaaaand that's the last of the plotholes I had to emergency fill! I'm relieved because: (1) I can't believe I actually managed to write all the feels; (2) the writing and typing up of his chapter was beset with sooo many obstacles (my laziness, sudden call to report back to the office, clients demanding last minute **** on a long weekend when I planned to do most of the work!) that at one point I thought I wouldn't get this done till next week; and (3) I won't have to keep switching between writer brain and editor brains anymore!! That's really the hardest thing!!! T^T I initially thought the plotholes would fill just one or two chapters, at most, so I was ultra surprised when I started working and found that it filled THREE double chapters that I just couldn't cut! I was totally in over my head with the rewrites!
> 
> Also, I sincerely think this is the cheesiest, corniest chapter ever. But I'm not sorry. Maybe. Because I cannot stop thinking of Erwin oozing sugar daddy vibes!!!
> 
> Anyway, I've been meaning to say a special thank you to several people now. For leaving such encouraging comments that saw me through the previous chapters, and for being consistently lovely and supportive and patient and lending me their thoughts (which helped PLENTY by the way!!!) through all the rewritten chapters, I'm shouting out my thanks to K, Art_Chaik, KY2333, bmthevick, LuvieMM, and Fleur d'Équinoxe. You've all been especially kind! To the readers, new and old, who've been leaving comments and kudos, thank you as well. I appreciate every one of you. :)
> 
> Finally, since I started (online) writing this, K has opened my eyes to the joys of tumblr chat. Because of her, and because I've enjoyed talking to fellow snk fans from here (!!! My staunch introverted self was pleasantly surprised!!!) so so much, I was inspired to clean up my tumblr to make it more visitor-friendly! :D So if for any reason anyone would rather connect on tumblr and/or talk there instead of here, I am teenytinymei.tumblr.com Look around, say hi, send an ask, come to chat, whatever. :)


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surrealistic imagery and sweet nothings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the previous chapter(s): i've gotten a couple of questions asking wth the politicians are thinking/scheming and realised (sheepishly, hehe) that the story did not explain itself as clearly as I wanted to believe. I outlined all the plotting and backstabbing in a reply to a comment. Kinda longish, but if anyone's interested, it's at: https://archiveofourown.org/comments/313352281 If something's confusing, please don't hesitate to point it out/ask me about it. I'll be glad to know which parts I have to be more explicit about in future chapters. :)
> 
> \---
> 
> Previously, Erwin promised to get Nile out of trouble with Parliament, but then goes and throws him under the bus for the potential additional charge of conspiracy to commit terrorism. In the process, Erwin's co-bedroom politickers become his allies in a bid to save their collective arses.
> 
> Levi's and Reader's working relationship returns to their uni-days friendship where Levi acts perpetually protective.
> 
> In carrying out his cheese, Erwin meant to say several things. To Levi, it was a declaration of his (honest) intentions on Reader. To Reader, doing the cheese in the Ambassador's Room was a symbolic "reconquering" of the place of her trauma, hoping that by changing its appearance, she could begin to associate it with safety again. Previously, safety with Levi, and now, with Erwin. 
> 
> The sofa and the armchair are both places where Reader was violated. Erwin left lilies (symbol of purity) to let her know that he doesn't judge her and doesn't see her differently, and red roses (symbolic of passion) as a declaration of love. He leaves the hoodie with her as a reminder of his protection and care. So, red roses + hoodie = i love you, and I will protect you. in this context, the message in the hoodie, "rebuild your world" is an offer of courtship.

You woke disoriented. In an unfamiliar place and in an unfamiliar body. You woke whole. Clear-headed. Restless and with a sense of purpose. Lost in your own body.

It was your body, you decided, when the stringy muscles where your limbs were supposed to be twitched at your will. The sheets outside the outline of your body were cold. The room was cold. The blankets that did not touch you were cold.

You swam through them. Turned your head - the pillowcase was cold - and made out next to you, on his half of the bed, the draped, hilly outline of Levi asleep on his side. 

The faint scent of roses swirled somewhere and you remembered last night - Levi catching your wistful backwards look on your way out of the closing Club, his wordless dive back to the Ambassador’s Room to retrieve the box of red roses, the wave of his hand dismissing your half-hearted protestations before you could mould them into words. The blooms under one crooked arm: “I’ll let you keep them at my place. Water them and send you updates and shit when you can’t visit.” and it felt a lifetime away.

Away from today. A lifetime away from the clear-headed, restless, purposeful body you woke in today.

Cutting over the frigid sheets, you reached for him, just close enough to feel the brief waves of body heat hovering out of his blanketed back. He didn’t wake.

“Levi,” you mouthed. Reluctantly, because this felt strange. Portended a severing as if he was a warm, safe womb from which you were about to be born. An umbilical severing. A part of you surged impatiently at the thought. Another recoiled and longed to shake him awake so he could exorcise these strange ideas running amok in this unfamiliar brain in this unfamiliar body. 

Outstretched fingers itched to curl. You forced them flat. The ceiling was dark in the pre-dawn. You stared at its blackness. The remnants of yesterday’s soul that had not yet been devoured by this new creature -  _ this new you _ , it whispered - rose up and converged. All that was left of it now were little pieces. Innocent, childlike, sentimental shards. The pieces that knew Levi best. The shards that Levi knew best.

You ushered them, these lost little children resembling horrific dolls - missing eyes, limbs, patches of hair, a shattered smile - through the channel of your outstretched arm. In the blue dreaminess of the early hour, they slid through the blood vessels of your limb, pooled at your fingertips and then leached, soaking into the sheets, their stain finding Levi’s sleeping form to wrap over and around him like a cloak.

Levi loved those shattered parts of you best. He would keep them and remember them, now that they were of no more use to you.

You lay long after the last of the old sentiments left you. Lay, for old times’ sake, with your arm across the space between your bodies, your face turned the other way towards the floor-to-ceiling window in his bedroom. You stared at the sliver between the heavy drapes until the night sky began to dilute, traces of stars stippling pale blue against the light-polluted chink of skyline.

And then, finally giving in to that heart-thumping purpose, you crept out of bed and changed, in the bleak half-light, into your clothes from the night before. 

Clothes he picked for you, you thought idly, tugging your dress flat before pulling the bulky, corded sweater over your head. Collecting your phone, you peeked at Levi. He was still deep in the throes of REM for once.

You tiptoed out.

At his desk, shoved against a corner of his bachelor’s pad living room, sat the box of roses and Erwin’s hoodie, the latter still folded with its cardboard message snug in its belly pocket. 

You found a memo pad, borrowed one of the perfectly maintained instruments under the glass of Levi’s pen case, scrawled a hasty,  _ Thank you for everything. See you at the office _ , and laid it atop the roses. Then, hoodie crushed against your chest, you scuttled out like a one night stand, pumping flush the handle of his front door as you closed it behind yourself. It shut with nary a whisper of wood against carpet.

The whole thing felt madly hilarious from there on. Liberating. You felt the giggle bubble up from somewhere in the pit of your new gut. It banged against your lips and burst forth in a sunny, bewildered smile offered to every neighbour who happened to share your elevator ride downstairs.

Skipping down to the sidewalk, you randomly picked a direction and began walking. No one took any notice of you. 

Levi’s residential neighbourhood was wonderfully ordinary. Populated with joggers, some with dogs in tow, the place was devoid of the rushing, shouting, clattering, and bickering so prevalent at the Embassy House. 

So this was what it was like to be a pure civilian in Mitras, you thought. To be a tourist with no care in the world but sightseeing.

You liked it. Sina, stripped bare, was beautiful. And Mitras, at least this domestic front apart and insulated from the behind-the-scenes mess of its politics, was a perfectly pleasant place.

A place...you really wouldn’t mind calling home.

You walked from one corner to another. Past one bus stop, then another. You walked until the blue atmosphere tinged pink and the first brightly-coloured buses began plying their routes. Under the pavement, the bowels of the city churned with commuter trains. The Embassy House was ten minutes away by train and thirty minutes away by bus. 

You had time, you decided. And you wanted to look at more of this city with today’s fresh eyes. 

You boarded the bus.

It was like travelling in a fishbowl, feeling every bend, curve, and jolt. The ambling pace was conducive to sleep, and with your head against a window, you remembered to yourself, in a cloud of satisfaction, that you could, for the first time in a long time, indulge in guilt-free shut-eye, devoid of worries, of deadlines, of life and death crises to resolve, of petty staff squabbles to broker. 

You were asleep for lord knows how long when the bus lurched to a pause at the border between the business district and the Old Town. You knew that further on, the second half of the business district continued, this time populated more densely by its financial cousin’s glass-fronted skyscrapers and manicured corporate pocket gardens. After that came the government district. The President’s Palace, the Parliament Building, the Prime Ministerial Palace…

A pair of wiry kids boarded the bus. He, in a stocking cap worn low over his forehead, dressed in leather and black and shining, studded boots, and she, in a jacket trimmed with pulled wool, her multi-coloured hair plaited into twin braids.

He handed her into the bus, then with hands still linked, tugged her to a corner seat at the back. 

There were no other passengers. The accordion doors pistonned shut. The bus gave a coughing leap and trundled on. 

Wide awake now, you watched the mirror image of the young couple from the large windows across your seat. Watched, out of the corner of your eye, their reflection slant across painted shop signs and stucco merchant buildings. 

They were engrossed in each other. Intertwined, sitting arm to arm and palm to palm, fingers twisted around each other’s. Their singular, united fist was hoisted onto the girl’s black-stockinged lap where, with her free hand, she stroked her beau’s darkly-tattooed knuckle.

You bit your lip.

The boy twitched. Languidly, the movement reeking of habitual repetition, he turned to drop a kiss on his girl’s rainbow pastel head.

Your fetus heart leapt in your chest. Under the belly pocket of the hoodie in your lap, the message card  _ whicked _ thickly.

_ I want that _ , whined a voice in your head.

_ I had that, _ responded a more sensible one at the forefront of your mind. Your gaze flinched away from the reflection of the content couple to the outside of your own window.

Parliament Building came into view and sailed past.

_ I have reconquered the Ambassador’s Room. If you’ll let me, I’ll rebuild your world. _

The classical architecture of government town chugged along. In their wrought iron-caged windows, your protestations surfaced,

The Ambassador’s Room wasn’t yours. And there was nothing in your world to rebuild. Your world as you lived in it, rotated in it for the past twenty-odd years, consisted of aimless snapshots. Of meaningless victories and achievements of goals chalked out for you by someone else.

It wasn’t really a world you wanted to keep.

The world you wanted had yet to be conceived. The world you wanted was yet a blueprint of quilted dreams: beating hearts and tender touches. Open-mouthed kiss-whispers behind the cup of your ear. Hands that worshipped as they stroked your streaked and marred skin. That husky, midnight voice waking just to comfort you, to fold you into eternal arms.

The world for which you ached was the world of the clear blue eyes peeking through the crack of your repetitive snowglobe existence. 

A world where, on icy days, you could thrust your hands into the welcoming pockets of a familiar coat and find a loving hand in there. A world with hugs that melded to your body.

Large gates and the Marian coat of arms flashed past.  _ Embassy Stop _ , tip-tapped orange letters across the electronic signboard up front. 

You jumped, smashing the call button just as the empty stop rolled into view. The bus cruised to a halt. Hurrying, you bowed apologies to the driver’s blue-eyed gaze on the rearview mirror. He raised a hand in wordless acknowledgment. You hopped off.

The sun was out now. The sweater over your dress was growing too warm.

You flew across the empty streets despite the red light, the heat from the skin underneath your clothes crawling up your neck to your face. The perimeter of the Embassy compound was just across the street. Drowsy guards sat up as you thundered nearer, nearly halting you until they recognised you through the wind-sacked hair and heaving pants, and saluted.

You waved. Called good morning. Or maybe not. You couldn’t remember. You were terribly out of sorts today, the restlessness inside you coming to a fever pitch. Colleagues out on their morning jog called out and you waved again, hitching the slipping hoodie higher up your arms. It fell open and flapped against your legs.

Shoes smacked on the stone porch. The front rooms were empty but a swell of voices rose and ebbed in the direction of the kitchen. Sasha and her morning court of hungry housemates again, stirring up a ship galley’s worth of ruckus.

You ran up the main staircase to your room where, finally, you stumbled to a stop behind your locked door. You dropped your arms. The hoodie whumped to the floor.

Trembling with exertion, the young couple flashing through your mind like a scene from a silver screen movie, you dialled. Under the copious knots of your sweater, perspiration beaded along the small of your back.

He was awake. You were sure of it. He was an early riser and it was past seven now.

He picked up on the fifth ring.

“Hello?”

Your breaths rang into the line. You pressed the cool glass against your feverish face. Just his voice, his early-morning-just-after-shower-but-before-coffee voice was enough to make you feel stuffed with cotton.

“Sweetheart? Is everything all right?”

“Erwin,” you finally managed, gasping his name, saying anything just to stem the obvious concern in his tone. 

You saw him opaquely in your mind. He was already dressed for the office except for coat and tie, the button at his collar popped open. You saw him with his hair brushed back; his eyes like summer skies. And you could touch him. This audio-manifestation conjured by his voice was solid; so physical you could grab him by the collar and he would kiss you right back.

You wanted to. You wished he would.

“I want you,” you confessed in a rush. “I don’t know how or why or if we can, but I want you. I’ve never, never in my life desperately wanted anything, but I know I want you.”

With that admission, the world seemed to shift under you. Tilted and slid away as if you really were a plastic figure in an ornate snowglobe and the magnets under your feet were shooting away in all directions. As if your limited world was finally cracking open and pieces from your glass sky were raining down in prismic flakes to your feet.

Erwin still hadn’t answered.

“I don’t need you to put that old life back together again,” you blabbered, never stopping to wonder if he understood what you were trying to say. “I just need you to be a part of this one.  _ This _ is the life I’m going to live in from now on and I’d like you to be in it. As you are. In last Saturday’s capacity. In the capacity of all that is good -”

“Breathe, darling, please.”

The air did nothing to quell the sprinting in your mind.  _ -In the capacity of all that made your knees weak and your heart tremble. The entirety of him. Every facet of Erwin Smith that you knew and did not yet know.  _

“- all of you. Every bit of you.”

“Yes,” he murmured agreement. “Where are you?”

You were still heaving breaths, though now in shallower pants brought on by the heat from underneath your sweater. With some manouvreing, you managed to take it off. It joined the hoodie on the floor.

“At the House.” Finally weightless, you shifted from one foot to the other before finally sinking to the floor beside the discarded piles of clothing, back to the edge of your bed, legs drawn up and elbows tucked between thighs and stomach.

“How are you?”

Giddy. Glorious. Like the sun could shine all day, all year, till the other end of eternity. 

You settled for, “Good,” and tried not to sound too breathless. “We went to the Club last night.”

“Is that why you’re so happy this morning?” You could hear the smile in his voice.

“Yes.” Then, “No.” You frowned. “I don’t know.” Huffed. Rolled your head back over the mattress.

Erwin waited.

“I was glad,” you tried again, cautiously, choosing your words as you transported yourself back to the Ambassador’s Room of last night, “that you thought of me like that. Thought...so much of me. But this morning…”

This morning was a blur.

This morning was a delirious storm.

“This morning I felt like a different person. The sort who can stand to never cry. Who’s brave -”

“You are brave, darling.” His words did not crack over the phone. Instead, they filtered through the lines. Rich, whole, luxurious. “And there’s no one who never cries -”

“Well, I want to be that kind of impossible person anyway,” you sighed, shoulders dipping. “The person I was when I woke up this morning.”

You relived the sense of all-consuming purpose that surged through your veins for blood when you sat up in pre-dawn light today. Remembered the tingle all over - like downing triple shots of galaxy caffeine that could each power you through several lifetimes.

“I want to keep feeling…” You were talking to yourself now. Mumbling in train of thought. Feel what exactly? Invincible? Powerful in the sense of a gasoline-choked engine?

“Untired,” you decided at last.

“Untired?” Erwin echoed.

“Yes,” you nodded. “Like I’d shed the weekend and everything else before it. Like waking up from a bad dream and realising I no longer have to live through the persona of a bawly heroine who constantly made everyone worry about her.”

“For the record,” Erwin felt he had to interrupt, “nobody thought of you like that.”

“I felt like that anyway,” you said, frustrated with yourself. “And this morning I no longer wanted to. I wanted to be far away from that feeling. I wanted to be somewhere else - anywhere and everywhere - and I wanted to do everything.”

“So you started with…?”

“Running out of Levi’s place.” It was so utterly underwhelming your tongue jammed itself against the back of your teeth for shame.

Erwin laughed. It was a good, round, laugh. Wholesome in the way you imagined a young Santa Claus would have laughed in his youth. A cosy, chicken noodle soup laugh.

You wanted to sink into it like a hot bath.

“You could have called me, sweetheart,” he said between snorts of laughter. “I could have come for you. I would have. I always will. Any time.”

“But you can't.” Your grip around your phone tightened, at once comforted and dismayed by his offer. “We can’t be seen together. Remember?”

“I could still have called you a cab.”

Then you wouldn’t have seen that young couple and you wouldn’t have come to the urgent realisation that led to...this.

“It wouldn’t have been the same.” With all your might, you willed him to know that you appreciated it, anyway. Desperately so. You just… “...think that bit of quiet did me good. That unhurried time…”

Your brows furrowed. Something niggled, then slammed into the focus of your mind. You jolted with a gasp. “The time! Don’t you have to be getting to the office now?”

Ironically, it was you who clambered to your knees, and then to your feet. And then you were dashing around, flinging your closet open, the bathroom open, running in and coming back out, desperately wondering how to simultaneously shower and talk on the phone without it being weird.

Erwin let you fumble for a little while before mildly replying, “I don’t have to get to the office right this minute. We have time, love. I want to listen to you.”

You stopped. “Oh.” A flurry of butterflies swarmed in your throat and all along your tongue. “What...what should I talk about?”

He breathed deep. You imagined him sitting down. Imagined him settling somewhere comfortable with his cup of morning coffee, getting ready to hear a long, good story.

“Anything at all.”

And you obliged, in mumbles and stammers at first as you traced footpaths on your bedroom floor. Then you were pacing along the perimeter, touching everything you could reach. The sandy roughness of the walls, your desk, the papers, pens, laptop, and everything on it, the plastic wood of your closet, and the giant soft toy you received as a joke one Christmas…

Eventually you circled back to your old spot by your discarded sweaters. Back pressed against your bed frame, you went on about your mundane childhood, the over-threshed, run-of-the-mill dreams your juvenile self conjured, and your choice to go to university in Sina in the impulsive hope of shaking up your cut-and-dried life -

“I’m glad you did,” he murmured. This time, you were so comfortable together that his voice drizzled like warm rain. “I’m glad you chose Sina.”

Your bum hurt and was maybe falling asleep. When you shifted to sit lower, your tailbone dug into the floor. You kept sitting anyway, neck twisted so you could lay your cheek on the pillow. 

With your phone at your ear, it was easy to picture Erwin sitting right next to you, one arm wrapped around your shoulders, thumb stroking your arm. The last time he held you like that was Saturday, when you were watching a movie. You had leaned against him and found that you fit perfectly along his side.

“That was where I saw you,” he went on, “University. You were such a wild, lively thing. I loved you right away.”

You sniffled.

“Darling?”

The digging pain, once felt, was now an insistent ache. Folding your legs together, you moved to sit on one hip. The bandages along the sides of your thighs crackled. Stretched adhesive, and pressed cold against the empty floor. Feeling around, you found the hoodie, dragged it across your legs and against yourself, and buried your nose into it.

It still smelled like his detergent. And his crimson roses.

“Keep talking,” you mumbled, voice thick and muffled.

“Are you crying?”

“No,” you choked against the welling tears. “Please. Go on.”

He did, and as wetness streaked down your face, you swore you could feel him right there - right beside you, legs outstretched, holding you in a loose, wide-looped embrace, head turned to yours, and his breath, his words, fanning over your brows. Unconsciously, you tilted your chin up, seeking his phantom kiss. There was only blank air.

“I long for you, darling,” he suddenly said, and the hiccup caught at your throat. You didn’t trust yourself to answer. 

“As soon as aid is sent over to Maria, I’m going to come for you. I’m going to hold you, and I’m going to kiss you, the public be damned.”

You gulped. Laughed-coughed. “Prime Ministers don’t kiss in public.”

“This one does.”

If he were here, you’d have already straddled him, and you’d be chest-to-chest, his hands linked at the tip of your back. You’d be nuzzling him and he, pressing tiny pecks to the indentation of your temple.

“At least I’ll see you tonight,” you whispered. “Right?”

Surprise swelled in his question. “You’ve decided to join us?”

You rubbed a cheek against your sheets in a nod. “Levi implied you set it up to give me a chance to settle the score.”

“Do you think you’re ready to see Nile Dawk?” It was pride in his tone.

You weren’t sure. At the time you said yes to Levi, you hadn’t yet thought the whole thing through. Now that you were able to stop for thought, uncomfortable little electric currents buzzed down your limbs.

But you were going to be brave, weren’t you? 

You sucked in a breath. “I’m going.” You sounded more confident than the compulsive crumpling of your expression let on. You pushed forward through the trembling of your mouth. “Because this is my game and I won’t have him ruin it for me.”

That afternoon, while you and Levi were discussing think tank findings procured in advance by Research and Policy, a deliveryman who still remembered to tip his cap at the gobsmacked receptionist whistled into your office with a large, beribboned box, which he proceeded to heft onto your desk with nary a, “`Xcuse me, Madam.”

Then he sauntered off as cheerily as he came, leaving you and Levi to stare at each other over the top of the black-emblazoned package that, by all appearances, originated from one of the most exclusive clothing stores in town.

You undid the ribbon and lifted the cardboard lid. Inside, in its bed of cream tissue, was the loveliest dress you’d ever seen.

Just like the hoodie, this upscale version came with a card. Typed, again, was the note, _ It’d be a shame if you stopped wearing this colour. It suits you so well. _

_ It _ was layers of pale pink silky, cloud-like fabric with skirts that toppled the box as they swirled across your knees.  _ It _ was exactly your size, with a waist that cinched yours perfectly. 

You held this dream up, hugged it, and caught the scent of a thousand and one roses.

“Turn around,” Levi said from behind you. “Let me see.”

You obliged, and he passed an approving look over it - over you. “That horny dork has surprisingly good taste.”

You buried your nose into the delicate fabric. “He does, doesn’t he?” The aroma of roses was overpowering; an intoxicating shroud of protection cloaked over you. You felt invincible. Thousand horsepower-engine running on galaxy caffeine-invincible.

“I’m going to wear it tonight.”

Levi’s face was unreadable. 

It really was a beautiful dress, with all the contradictions of a deep neckline and filmy skirts. And the colour suited you so well that it really would be too bad if you stopped wearing pink.

Taking down your blazer from the hanger on the wall behind you, you hung up your new ensemble in its place.

Pink, you decided, was going to be the colour of Nile Dawk’s hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Levi's pen case - Like Erwin, I see Levi as the type to use fountain pens (quite a number of world figures do!). He's not exactly a collector, but he has some and is the fastidious type to house them properly. I imagine he'd have one of these at his desk: https://www.pinterest.ph/pin/829154981384488540/
> 
> *I find the tattooed punk/cotton candy tumblr girl kind of couple super cute? I don't know what I'll do if I see one such pair irl. hahaha
> 
> *snowglobe life - It was a showdown between "snowglobe life" and "Pollly Pocket life" but I was afraid maybe Polly Pockets were not popular/familiar enough. Did anyone else play with them when they were little? The one I used to have was like a music box, staged in a cozy room inside a folding case. The characters had magnets at the bottoms of their feet and you could guide them along pre-set magnetic routes. I was crazy about them...for the first few minutes. After that, the magnetic "walking" became monotonous and they became more like teeny dollhouses (doll rooms???) fit only for display.
> 
> \---
> 
> This chapter was powered by: Ultima Thule, Fangirl, and Famous Last Words, the latter on repeat with matching headbanging and mouthing of lyrics. As always, thank you for your patience. I hope everyone is healthy and doing well.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eld airs Nile's dirty laundry. Daddy Erwin can't keep his hands to himself.

That was the first time Eld met you in person - at the hotel, fifteen minutes shy of seven o’clock. You looked fresh. Normal, for lack of a better word, and shook his hand smilingly. He marvelled at your light conversation, at your talking as if the nightmarish encounter with Nile Dawk, et cetera, and the ensuing scandal, never happened. 

An unobtrusive waiter asked him for his drinks order but placed scotch on the rocks in front of Levi. Eld caught the appreciative glance the young ambassador threw your way and instantly understood why Levi would disrupt his entire day’s schedule to attend a special Parliamentary session about a scandal you’d caused, and personally see to the resolution of the whole affair sans complaint. 

The door to your private dining room opened. Erwin Smith, still in his workday suit, swept in. He made his rounds, shaking Eld’s hand, nodding at Levi, and -

“Hello, my dear.”

You rose in behalf of your boss to greet the Majority Party Leader. Rose, to slot cleanly into Erwin Smith’s arms. Despite the cordial distance between you two - four, five inches? - suspicious curiosity shimmied inside Eld. 

He had to hide a knowing look. Levi watched him hawkishly.

You and Erwin exchanged polite kisses - one on each cheek - before mutually stepping away. Erwin’s arm remained around you just long enough for him to casually slide a hand down your back, lingering a moment before pulling away. 

“I’m glad you’ve all come early.” He pushed your chair in for you as you sat, claimed the empty spot beside you, and scooted closer. A second glass of scotch on the rocks materialised in front of him. The sideways tilt of the head, and his second-too-long twitch of a smile, both directed at you, did not go unnoticed.

Eld cleared his throat to hide a smile. “It’s nearly seven,” he coughed, “Nile Dawk will be here soon.”

“Yes.” To his surprise, Erwin leaned back and stuffed one hand in his pocket, looking as relaxed as Levi was taut. With his free arm braced against the edge of the table, he nonchalantly swiped a clear streak along the outside of his perspiring glass. “Might as well get straight to the point. We are getting rid of Nile. And Hoover and Braun. Grisha Jaeger, too. Wipe the slate clean, so to speak.”

Eld’s drink arrived. “Grisha Jaeger has already been arrested,” he replied neutrally, eyeing the waiter’s retreating back. When the man had disappeared, Levi clarified,

“I believe you intel people like to say, _ liquidate _ him.”

That deserved a chuckle. “What for?”

“Been in the business too long,” Erwin replied at the same time Levi said, “We have our own reasons.”

“That is to say,” Erwin tried again, “Levi and I have our own reasons: cut off the Titans’ financial support, for one. Keep Grisha from dipping his fingers into our politics, for another. He seems to have forgotten he’s not Sinian.”

But from the way two pairs of eyes kept straying towards you, Eld surmised that this whole business of putting away Grisha Jaeger and company would also be personally satisfying to both men.

He shrugged and laid his hands flat on the table. “That won’t be difficult. As I said, Grisha’s under detention. Maximum security. Plus, the Interior Minister’s overseer of all jails. And he’s your party mate,” he nodded at Erwin. “He can call Grisha’s head warden for you about it. Hell, you can make the phone call yourself.”

“Maybe.” The pattern-tracing on the sweaty glass stopped. Erwin’s blue gaze, when it landed on Eld, was deliberate and deadly. “But we’d infinitely prefer if this business of...putting Grisha out of commission...fell onto the shoulders of Nile Dawk.”

As if on cue, the door banged open and in stepped the Prime Minister himself, Reiner Braun at his heels. Nile greeted everyone effusively, just as if this was going to be a friendly supper. Erwin obliged and stood to shake his hand. Levi sat in stubborn, stony silence. Eld was completely forgotten.

Nile scraped onto his seat and instantly leered at you. Leaning much too far over the table, he unabashedly lapped up the sight of the tight fabric dip at your decolletage.

“Look at you! So pretty in pink.” Accompanied by a miniscule snort. “All better now?” 

Levi bristled and slung an arm over the back of your chair. Erwin stiffened. Your lashes fluttered to your cheeks as, in a tone Eld couldn’t quite pinpoint, you replied,

“Yes, Excellency. Thank you for asking after me.”

Nile Dawk laughed. Just a little too loudly, Eld thought. “Let’s discuss business after dinner. Might make some of us a little less prickly.” He looked pointedly at Levi and the latter’s possessive gesture, and received a scowl in return.

Dinner was an awkward affair that only Nile enjoyed. Feeling like a tin can man wound tight with the anticipation of things you knew would later come, you could only pick at your plate. The Prime Minister took note. He had wolfed down his food and wore a self-satisfied look.

“Not to your liking? Or are you keeping yourself clean for me?” He waggled his eyebrows. Reiner had the decency to look uncomfortable. “You were very good the last time -”

Levi slammed his glass down on the table. “Watch yourself.”

Nile bared his teeth. “What? Scared I’ll hurt your baby girl? Everything I’ve done, she asked for. And she enjoyed every moment of it.” He grinned at you. “Isn’t that right, little one?”

You swallowed the meagre bite and laid your fork down, suddenly feeling sick. Suddenly unable to even lift your head to look Nile in the eye. You resisted the urge to bite your lips. The earlier courage was leaking out of you, puddling onto the carpet under your shoes and evaporating into nothingness. 

In a wash of horrified panic, you thought maybe you mistook apprehension for anticipation. Maybe the anticipation, the excitement you imagined you carried since morning, was never there to begin with.

Beside you, under the tablecloth, you felt the brush of a trouser leg against your bare calf and the press of dress shoes against your pumps. The sensation came from your right hand side. From Erwin’s side. You risked a glance up and saw, all in a flash, the fists clenched at his knees, the tight ligament strumming at the side of his neck, and the grinding knot at his jaw.

“ _ Fuck off _ , Nile,” came spitting out from your left side. The words practically glistened with venom.

Nile wiped his mouth. He pushed his plate away. “I don’t know why you’re so tense all the time, Levi, when you keep a perfectly beautiful woman with you all the good working day.”

“I feel for all your female staff,” Levi retorted. Both men glared at each other.

“Nile,” Erwin began reasonably. He had had enough of the Prime Minister’s lecherous jabs and your obvious discomfort, and was annoyed that he couldn’t be as forthright as Levi about it. Taking solace in the fact that he was about to put Nile in his place very, very soon, “Now that you’re satisfied, maybe we can begin discussing what we came to talk about.”

“Ah.” The most terribly smug look came over the other’s face. “I’m ready to hear you two shits grovel.”

To his surprise, Levi only blinked, unconcerned. Erwin was more relaxed than the last time Nile fed him this threat.

“I’m about to expose your bullshit! The two of you!”

He wasn’t getting the reaction he’d hoped for. Not even from you. Having drained his glass, Levi moved on to examining his fingernails. Erwin simply sat back, smiling benignly at everyone. As if picking up on Nile’s discomfiture and taking shelter in the unfazed men hemming you in at both sides, your ramrod posture loosened into quiet complacence.

“Nobody’s going to believe that little whore of yours was raped!” Nile tried again, voice rising, hoping viciousness masked the unease churning all over his nerves. “She’s done the rounds in Parliament! Everybody knows that!”

“But nobody’s going to admit to it.” Levi. Eternally bored.

“Yeah? How do you think they’d feel if someone were to come right out and say it?” Nile challenged. “Someone who’ll go to the media, who’ll tell the whole story and expose your sex lobbying ring?”

“Someone like you.”

The Prime Minister whirled on Erwin, “Don’t think so highly of yourself, Golden Boy. The people won’t stand behind you when they find out you’re a rutting dog who’ll sell Sina’s interests for a round with that woman!” He was practically shrieking now, his face flushed with rising blood.

“It’s clear to anyone who has eyes that you’ve been cosying up to the Marian Embassy! I’ve years of experience over you, Erwin! I know you’re after my place. I know you want to be Prime Minister!” 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Erwin murmured under his breath.

Nile barked a shuddering laugh and scrubbed at his forehead. “You were afraid I’d blabber to the media yesterday, weren’t you? That’s why you asked for this meeting. That’s why you asked for a truce! To buy yourselves time. To hold me off when you’ve really got nothing to offer me! Well, damn your truce!” 

A water glass rocked with the force of Nile slamming his hands on the table. He rose so fast he knocked his chair over. “You got one thing right, though, Erwin. I know your secret and I can expose it anytime. I’m going to do it now. I really will take you lot down with me now!”

Erwin looked lazily at Levi. One hand was shoved back in his pocket. He sat with crossed legs. “At the very least, cosying up to the Marian Embassy beats cosying up to terrorists, eh?”

Levi rolled his eyes. “Disgusting. Who’d want to cosy up to you?”

Nile stared between them. In his mind’s eye, Erwin and Levi were panicking at his threats. Falling all over themselves begging, promising to do anything, to cooperate with him in anything, if only he would keep their dirty little secret. They weren’t supposed to be bantering with each other on an inside joke!

Levi’s gaze slid over to him, and then to the vanished back of his toppled chair. “Eld discovered a little something about you. You might want to sit down for this.” 

For the first time, Nile’s gaping stare found Eld Jinn, who figured this was probably the reason he was invited to this meeting. While Nile Dawk might brush off Levi’s and Erwin’s accusations as lucky guesses, he had no reason to disbelieve the findings of Sina’s Intelligence Unit Director.

“Grisha Jaeger’s been depositing large sums of money in your offshore Shiganshina accounts, hasn’t he, Mr. Dawk?”

Nile jolted, and before he could help himself, retorted, “Those were campaign funds! It is public knowledge that Grisha Jaeger is one of my more generous election donors. All the money’s audited by the Central Audit Commission!”

“Not when the deposits are made long after election,” Eld said, thoroughly enjoying the myriad evolutions of Nile’s petrified facial expressions. “I’m sure you know perfectly well that Central Audit does not audit personal accounts. And neither can it audit undeclared offshore accounts.”

Nile settled for gritting his teeth. “I don’t have to explain to you.”

Erwin and Levi were obviously enjoying themselves. If he were to be honest, Eld thought he liked the feeling of making powerful people squirm in their seats. Such opportunities did not come by often enough. 

“Certainly not, Mr. Dawk,” he conceded, drumming his hands on the stark white tabletop. Casually. Rhythmically, even, like he would begin humming soon. “But maybe you’d clear up some very concerning matters, anyway. I’m particularly interested why someone in your position would be receiving long-distance phone calls from Maria - from someone who sounds most convincingly like Pastor Nick.” Eld pretended to think. “Let’s see. The last one came not too long ago. You were heard ordering the assassination of Her Majesty, Queen Historia.”

You and Levi exchanged startled looks.

Eld didn’t have the chance to inform eith of you about it before today, but figured that Maria’s own Intelligence would have picked up on it. Apparently, it did not. Still, he supposed, this time was as good as any to simultaneously surprise Maria’s prodigy and watch the colour drain from Nile Dawk’s face.

“I think Parliament would rather seize upon your connection with the Titans, don’t you think, Nile?” Erwin said, as relaxed as could be. “The greater lot of them prefer to hold on to their positions. More importantly, it’d be such a shame to have to dissolve Parliament and hold elections in the middle of this mess with your Titans.” 

He gestured unhurriedly. “Why don’t you sit? We can still talk about this.”

Nile eyed both Erwin and Levi. Of the two, Erwin looked more reasonable. Levi just sat with his arm resolutely draped along the back of your seat, scowling at everyone and everything. 

Neither of them looked like they’d have the patience to perpetually cajole him.

Nile wilted onto the seat Reiner picked up for him. Head hanging between his shoulders, he shoved his hands into his hair and let out a deep, defeated sigh. “Our truce…”

Levi snorted. “Thought you didn’t trust it.”

He wagged his head, his words plodding as if he was dragging them out, one at a time.“I hoped to remain in Parliament. Of course, I don’t reasonably think I can get out of being disciplined. I can’t think of any explanation that would make this better for me.” He groaned, fisting his hands in his hair and moaning when an idea suddenly came upon him.

You saw it in the sudden tension of his whole body. “You!” Nile suddenly gasped, throwing his head up and jerking in your direction. “You can do this for me! You can save me!”

You recoiled, shrinking back between Erwin and Levi.

Nile scrabbled forward, so desperate he would have thrown himself at your feet. “You can withdraw everything. Tell them it was all a mistake! Tell them you’re not interested in pressing charges!”

Levi intercepted him, moving in front of you as if to shield you from the foulness. “In exchange for what?” 

Nile’s mouth hung open.

“Wasn’t that your favourite question?” His voice dripped with disdainful irony. “Didn’t you like to say nothing is for free? Especially not a favour this big. You’re asking the Embassy to lose face.”

The Prime Minister’s hands curled. He tried to peer past Levi at you. “What do you want, pet? Tell me. It can be anything at all. Anything I can do -”

Levi clicked his tongue. Like a conditioned dog, Nile’s head snapped in the direction of the sound. “You ask a favour of the Embassy, you deal with me.”

Nile’s face contorted in distrust. Stubbornly, he scrambled sideways to catch a glimpse of you. “Tell me what you want,” he begged, “Erwin and Levi listen to you. So think hard, dearest. What would you most love to have? Tell me.” He was practically wheedling. “Something you’ve always wanted.”

The men beside you held their peace and you realised, this was it. This was the whole point of the meeting. This was how Levi and Erwin forced Nile Dawk to his knees before you, to do with as you pleased, with the only caveat that he - 

_ Liquidate Grisha Jaeger. Place that burden on Nile Dawk’s shoulders.  _

Your slick, clammy fear dried up. Crackled like leaves and sparked into a fire so filling you could physically feel the burn. Morbidly calm, you lifted your head and looked Prime Minister Dawk dead in the eyes. 

“I want Grisha Jaeger’s head.”

Nile’s honeyed expression froze. Reiner’s jaw dropped. “What -” the former stammered. “ - you don’t mean that literally -”

Enunciating every word, “I want Grisha Jaeger’s head in a cooler.”

Nile laughed nervously. “But my pretty...what would you do with it?”

“Who cares?” The pall that had come over Nile and Reiner was a laughable change. Finally, it was your turn to wield this obscene, outrageous power. “I want it. Get it for me.”

Nobody spoke. For the longest time, Nile’s heavy breaths were the only sounds that broke the surreal silence. You gaze strayed around the room to land anew, impatiently, on him.

“So? Will you or won’t you? I thought it’d be a simple matter now that Grisha’s in prison,” you huffed. “Some Prime Minister you are.”

Prime Minister. Nobody had called him that in a while. Since this fiasco blew up, everyone had resorted to calling him by his last name, as if his removal from power was inevitable.

Pride dawned before sense. Nile sat up straighter. “All right,” he declared, “Grisha Jaeger’s head in exchange for withdrawal of charges.”

Levi and Erwin shared a look. “Fair enough.”

“And you’ll leave me well alone after all this?” this was directed to Erwin, who raised a shoulder in assent.

“Sure.”

Nile trembled with triumph. Now that he’d thought about it for all of fifteen seconds, he saw this was better. Much, much better. He’d get everything back - reputation and career - only at the expense of Grisha Jaeger’s head! Grisha Jaeger, who’d been pushing him around, telling him how to run Sina. Grisha Jaeger, whose hare-brained idea of terroristic negotiations nearly ruined his life!

“It might motivate you to know that Grisha ordered the filming and publication of your last...tryst,” Erwin off-handedly remarked.

That was the last straw. Nile’s face blackened. “Then he deserves what’s coming to him! You just watch me, darling,” he promised, and you noted the misfortune that Nile Dawk’s smiles - and his grins and his snarls, his jeers and his leers - were doomed to always look sinister because they came paired with pointed little teeth. “I’ll kill him myself!”

When he had stormed out in a bloodthirsty stormcloud, Reiner pottering after him, the rest of you heaved deep sighs and finally relaxed.

“Good work, Eld.” Erwin said, examining his whiskey glass and swirling the dregs of his drink. He thought it over and set it back on the table, untouched. Then he traded a deep breath and a smoothening of his shirt for a satisfying stretch. Fondly, to you,

“I didn’t expect that.”

You returned the gesture with a watery smile. “Me too.” You didn’t have to put up appearances anymore now that the big show was over. The adrenaline rush receded. You twisted trembling hands in your lap, feeling like jelly all over.

Erwin reached over and squeezed your hands. The gesture was natural. Reflexive. Unthinking and unconscious of Eld. “You did well.”

“Think he’ll really do it?” Eld. The curiosity rolling off of him was practically a physical force.

Levi snorted. “He will.” He glared at Nile’s empty seat. “Motherfucking sucker.”

\---

None of you lingered very long after that, staying only to cool heads before rising as one to leave. Eld and Levi led your single file, while you and Erwin shuffled along, keeping up the rear.

Eld was much too interested in conversation with Levi, and halted your short procession several times at particularly engaging points of their discussion. 

You didn’t mind and neither did the light fingertips on the small of your back, which skimmed electric bullets every time you felt them through the gauze of your dress and the light suede coat belted over it. 

When Eld stopped once again, gesticulating wildly, child-like excitement brightening over his face, so did Levi. And so did you. Erwin was not paying attention. The tentative fingertips, hovering behind you like a miniature air navy, plowed, palms and all, into your back. 

“Ah,” he exclaimed, too mild to be truly sorry, “My apologies. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

Too late. The warmth of his hand had already imprinted onto you, dipping through the suede, through the silk, through the gauze and through your skin, muscles, and bones, into whatever lay beyond them. 

Your heart seized.

In a few mincing steps, the lot of you would emerge from this private room and the wonderful end of this dinner would, officially, conclude. Once outside this private, hidden haven, you would have to separate into respectful distances. Would have to pretend clinical politeness in lieu of the warm cooperation you just shared.

Outside this private room, only a few feet away and through the threshold, Erwin would become M.P. Smith again and you would have to give up the warm hand at your back.

But damn if you didn’t try to get more of it while you could.

You turned. A half step away and three quarters around. The dreamy, filmy top layers of your skirt fanned up and out ever so slightly, caught the light, and blushed a champagne rose. Between the deep cliffs of your bodice, your exposed sternum glowed a dusty gold.

Your gazes collided.

On the ghost of a thought, you grabbed his hand. The outstretched hand; the hand still curved in accordance with the concave of your spine. Fingers slid upon fingers, and skin upon skin, one blind feeling upon another as your limbs groped and twined. Your eyes never left - couldn’t leave - the other’s. Fingers locked tight; tighter. 

In another heartbeat, you felt a tug. Erwin brought your joined hands up. Up, touching and passing his chest. Higher up, bumping against his chin. And still higher yet, until the faint curl of his lip pursed into a kiss on the inside of your wrist.

You bit your lip to quell a shudder. The fingers captured in his spasmed instead. Numb fire radiated down your arm.

He let you go. You staggered back. Your hands were still locked together. Erwin smiled and you watched in part horror, part excitement, as, with his free hand, he reached for your coat and tucked the limp lapels more snugly around you. The sliver of skin from the plunging neckline of his dress disappeared under his touch.

“It’s nippy outside.”

The words were so soft. His loosely curled hand lay like a heavy pendant against your breast bone. You squeezed his fingers. He returned the gesture more gently. You shared a momentary grin.

Then you whirled, fingers, hands, and hearts unknotting, unravelling, as you skipped back to Levi’s side. He started from his conversation with Eld, threw a suspicious backwards glance, and began walking again. 

You tried to join in the exchange, putting in a few words here and there as if you kept up with it the whole time. Levi manoeuvred you to his side and together, you walked to the door. A waiter was already there, holding it open, showing you a glimpse of the hotel lobby beyond. 

The lot of you crowded together to say your goodnights, a confused tangle of suits and hands and bodies. Erwin leaned over your shoulder to shake hands with Eld. Hidden by Levi on the other side, his left arm - sneaky left arm! - snuck around your waist to press you to himself in the briefest, most secret of embraces.

“Good night, Mr. Smith,” you said as he, a gentleman, later bent to kiss you, a lady, goodbye.

“Good night, darling,” he murmured back in the quietest of voices, brushing your other cheek with his.

Nobody was any the wiser.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Offshore (Shiganshina) accounts - bank accounts opened in a foreign country, sometimes for purposes of hiding undeclared/ill-gotten wealth. Here, I used Shiganshina as one of the cities of neighbouring Maria, a less-developed country compared to Sina. 
> 
> Made sense to me that Nile would choose to hide a secret bank account in Maria: (1) it's accessible; (2) people usually first look for secret stash bank accounts at countries flagged as tax havens, and do not expect them to be hidden within the neighbour's territory; and (3) most developing countries, like Maria, have stricter bank secrecy laws than developed countries to attract investments and currency. Unfortunately, this also makes them prime money laundering spots because strict bank secrecy laws make it very difficult to peek into people's (especially big despositors') bank accounts.
> 
> *Central Audit Commission - borrowed, again, from our system, where an independent, constitutionally-established Commission on Audit reviews finances related to government activities including election candidates' donations and spending.
> 
> *undeclared offshore accounts - the implication is that Nile is supposed to honestly declare all of his assests, whether located in Sina or elsewhere. Based, again, on practise in my country where public officials from a certain rank upwards have to annually declare, among others, all their assets, which includes all sorts of properties and bank accounts all over the world. The point of this is to systematize a lifestyle and corruption check: to see if officials are spending beyond their (declared and legitimate) sources of income. 
> 
> The giant (and pretty common) loophole, though, is to just liquidate assets, park them in offshore accounts - ie., foreign banks in places with very strict bank secrecy laws, and not tell anyone they're there. Unless somebody (like Erwin and the Marian Embassy in collaboration with Eld in this case), takes a special interest and uses creative means to sniff out these secret, foreign bank accounts, the government is really none the wiser about them, since in knowing a public official's assets, the government relies only on the said official's self-serving (and often incomplete, as in Nile's case here) declaration.
> 
> *kisses - air/cheek kisses? I understand that in other countries where kisses are the usual forms of greeting, everybody kisses everybody. But where I'm from, the protocol is kinda weird. Generally, ladies greet each other with kisses. Gentlemen (especially those from the older generation/those whose families were kinda Spanish at some point) greet ladies with kisses too, but shake the hands of other men in greeting. Other times, it's just handshakes all around. Does anybody else do this or is my country just confused? hahaha
> 
> \---
> 
> And that's part two (of chapter 20, which i had to split if i didn't want it to turn into a 8,000-word behemoth). 
> 
> Some readers told me they check everyday, and I am sincerely grateful for, and honestly overwhelmed by the enthusiasm. I'll save y'all the trouble now and say that although the next couple of chapters have already been sorted, i might take a bit of time before the next update because it still needs to be typed up and I'm resting my wrists. Been working them a bit much lately, writing and typing for work and for fun, and quarantine baking (made butter garlic bread today! from scratch! and it was edible! yay!) and stuff (unfortunately, not the nsfw kind, but it was definitely the one that finally did my dominant wrist in), and now they're sore. 
> 
> If anyone wants to talk, though, I'm still gonna be on tumblr, and will be glad of the company. :)
> 
> P.S. If anyone catches any typo/spelling/formatting errors, please don't hesitate to let me know. Lately, I learned that some authors don't like this and take offense??? But for me, it's actually more embarrassing to keep a typo up for the whole internet to see than to be called out on it. hehe So if you spot any, please tell me where so I can fix it. :) Thank you in advance. :) (Most of the time, I spot them when I go over the last posted chapter to remember what I wrote and am soooo mortified to find them. hahaha)


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phone sex while the world burns. Pastor Nick makes good his promise of Royal Fireworks.

Grisha Jaeger understood men in power. He worked for one for years before himself becoming a powerful man. So he knew that accumulated power drove their wielders to do things they would otherwise believe they couldn’t get away with.

He suspected the same of those people who kept him detained. Despite attempts at backdoor negotiations, bail was not made available to him. Grisha doubted he would ever see the outside world again.

So the next time his meal slid through the narrow window at the bottom of the steel door of his cell, he asked to make a phone call.

He was in maximum security, but not incommunicado. Hitch had come to visit. So had his lawyer. And two days after he shouted his request into the four walls of his cell, he was taken out to see his son.

The young man waiting at the meeting room was wary, his eyes darting around the bare, claustrophobic walls, one of which was interrupted by a clear, one-way window. He stiffened when Grisha entered in his orange jumpsuit.

Jaeger senior brightened at the sight of his son. His shuffling pace quickened. He strode to the table, leaning in for a good look as Jeager junior flinched back, and breathing wonderously,

“Eren. It’s really you.”

Eren Jaeger had come straight from work and was still in his suit. He had long since dismissed his father as a figment of his mother’s imagination, and could not accept that the devoted man in his mother’s dreams was the same creature as this bedraggled detainee.

At Eren’s grimace, Grisha attempted to smooth himself down. “How are you? How’s Carla?”

“Long dead,” came the bitter reply. The son swept an unimpressed gaze over the father’s getup. “This is what you’ve been doing with yourself. This is why you left.” His voice grew sharp. Accusatory. “You left us to become a terrorist.”

Grisha clasped his hands together, almost prayerfully. “I did it for you, Eren. For you and for your - late - mother.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” Eren hissed.

Grisha’s mouth tightened. For the first time in so long, he’d finally seen his son again. He was finally  _ speaking _ to him. He savoured the moment, drinking in the young man’s every unfamiliar feature.

“Listen to your old father,” he pleaded. “Indulge me for just a while.”

Eren sat back, crossed his arms, and warned, “If you’re going to ask me to get you out of here, I’m done.”

Grisha shook his head. Wagged it, really. Slowly, side to side, as if it were a heavy burden. “I’m content with the life I lived. I’m ready to step aside and hand everything over to you.”

Eren narrowed his eyes.

“When I am gone, you must go and look for Hitch. Hitch Dreyse. She is your best ally, and she will take care of everything you need.” Grisha lifted and dropped his cuffed hands. “I thought we could finally be father and son. But in this state, I’m afraid I can’t be around you for long.” 

He sighed. “Then again, I suppose I wasn’t around all your life. I was always busy pandering to Rod.” Picking up after him and smoothing every wrinkle in that man-child’s life, Grisha thought. “It was my job.” 

Gently, he thumped a fist onto the table. There was not a shred of regret in him. Everything was matter-of-fact about Grisha Jaeger. Everything that was done,  _ was _ . He felt no desire to rethink and to regret anything. 

“It left me with so little time with you and your mother -”

“Barely any,” Eren interrupted. At best, his father was only a blurred face in the earliest memories of his childhood. What photos they had of him were lost in boxes of old things shoved in a closet somewhere. Because Grisha never rose to sufficient prominence when Eren was a child, he did not even see or hear his father at least on television.

“Yes. But I longed to,” he swore, and despite his bitter prejudice, Eren saw the sincere glimmer in the old man’s eyes. “I always said to myself that one day, when I make it, when I’d done something with myself, I’ll find you both again. Present myself and everything I’ve gained and lay it all at your feet. Then it happened.” 

Grisha’s eyes were faraway and almost glazed, seeing into and through Eren as he spoke. “Rod Reiss emptied the royal coffers. He lived in unrestrained luxury, so it was inevitable. But he didn’t imagine it would happen so soon - at least not in his lifetime - and he couldn’t bear the thought of living on the ‘mere pittance’ he was receiving from the Marian government.” Grisha folded his hands together. “So he offered to send me to Sina to do business with the Royal endorsement.”

Grisha spoke as if he was a dying man reviewing scenes from his existence.

“He had me do business in trading. As you know, Sinian imports are - were - notoriously low because of the expense and difficulty of getting them beyond the borders. Transport them through land and there’s not a large enough market to make the effort and expense profitable. Get them through air and it was just too costly. Export them through the sea via the Marian ports and there were import tariffs and stiff competition to fill the low quotas.” He shook his head. “Sinian businessmen seldom traded goods. Which was a pity, because the country was technologically advanced and had great potential as a manufacturing hub.”

Which it did eventually become, Eren thought. When he was old enough to understand, the Sina he knew was already a financial and economic powerhouse, so large and wealthy that Maria looked like its tiny rural neighbour.

“Rod saw Sina’s great need.” Sentimental recollection touched Grisha’s storytelling. “That man was sharp when it suited him.  _ Only _ when it suited him. He offered to scrap tariffs and to open ports for me if I successfully managed to establish a trading empire in Sina. In return, I was to pay him an annual dividend from my profits.” A whiskered grin lined Grisha’s suddenly old face. “I did everything he asked. I made my empire. I filled Rod’s personal treasury and kept it hush-hush on top of it all.”

Up until this Titan business, Eren did not fully realise just how desperately Sina relied on its Marian trade routes. Up until this meeting with Grisha Jaeger...his father...who was in the thick of everything, he did not understand why aid negotiations should stall on account of unsettled trade deals. 

He did not understand why you and Levi were perfectly willing to drag out aid negotiations - at the cost of thousands of lives - over a squabble about whether or not to revive the old trade routes that had worked so well for everyone for years.

“Sina couldn’t care less about our setup as long as I was paying them taxes and kicking up their economy. But the people of Maria would have cared, if they knew. Rod reduced national revenue when he completely made away with import tariffs.” Grisha’s faraway gaze finally lowered. His folded hand scraped inwards, leaving a foggy imprint of his body heat on the steel table. “In a way, I suppose you might say Rod diverted that money - converted it into dividends which went to pad the royal coffers.”

“And you let all of this happen,” Eren cried. “You and King Rod  _ stole _ from the people of Maria - for what?”

“To take my due!” He spat the words viciously, as if restraining himself from raising his voice at his son. “Rod’s demands kept me from my family - from all that was dear to me. I deserved something after all that. I deserved to take something at his expense. Something I could gift to the wife and son I had to leave behind.” He inhaled through his teeth, all his sounds moist, plodding, and tired. “I decided that the only fitting gift I could bring to you and your mother was the world.”

His head dipped, shoulders sticking up beyond his thinning pate. “I have acquired Sina. I, a non-citizen, have made my wealth on its soil, and I am leaving it all to you, Eren. Lands, buildings, estates, commercial empires in every industry imaginable. All that I wished to gift to you and your mother. I give it all to you now.” He shook his head and the motion was heavy. “My only regret is that I did not manage to acquire Maria. Had Rod not died and his successor overturned all of his trade policies, I would have had Maria for you, too.”

The boy’s chair scraped back, metallic and shrill. Eren recoiled from his father. At his place by the door, the security guard still hadn’t moved. They had time yet, Eren and Grisha. He and...his father. 

He couldn’t.

He shook his head. He didn’t want to be complicit in this mess. He wanted no part in the scheming, the killing. He thought back to the day of the Embassy attack and faces swam before him. Men, women, children. Crying, lost, displaced. 

Colleagues. Marco and his grisly end.

“No,” Eren croaked. “No, you’re fucking crazy and I don’t want anything to do with you!” All he wanted those long years was his father. Not money. Not luxury. And certainly not the world. It was all his poor mother wanted, too, when she whispered her husband’s name with her last breath.

The security guard came to life. Eren stomped for the door.

Grisha attempted to follow him but was instantly stilled by a clank of metal. His ankles were cuffed to his chair, which was in turn bolted firmly to the floor.

“You’re still my heir, Eren!” he called after his son’s retreating back. “It’s still all yours!”

Eren was gone.

A handful of guard changes later, Grisha was woken from sleep by the creak of his cell door. The lights in the hall outside his room had been turned down to a low dimness. For lights out, perhaps? he thought drowsily.

People entered his cell. Several of them, he deduced, from the overlapping tapping of their footsteps. He squinted. Before he could begin to make anything out, a cloth was wound around his head, over his eyes. Someone clasped his upper arms and jerked him to his feet.

“Get up. You’ve somewhere to go.”

They proceeded leisurely, Grisha and his two - he was certain now there were two of them - guides. Down and around the detention center to what must be the basement. Here, air came in odoriferous drafts. Every sound was a clang or bang, echoing cold and hollow.

The hands around Grisha’s arms fell away. Dull footsteps moved back. Three, four, five. Heavy boots.

“Run,” the same gruff voice spoke again. Grisha inclined his head towards the sound. He was not restrained; not even cuffed. But the thought of reaching up and ripping off his blindfold refused to trickle down to his limbs.

“I’m talking to you,” the voice said, this time clearly directed at him. “Spin three times and run in any fucking direction you want.”

Grisha’s mouth worked. Still hazy with the film of abruptly interrupted sleep, he took a sideways step. Then another, one foot crossing, stumbling, over the other until he was rotating in place, Sina’s wealthiest, most influential man, spinning like a top out of control.

“Fucking run!”

His whole gut, intestines, stomach, kidneys, lungs, bowels, and all, lurched up to his throat. His foot slipped. He began falling, caught himself, pitched forward, and began to run. 

He didn’t understand. He couldn’t see. Couldn’t think past the rushing in his ears. He ran mechanically, growing more surefooted, more short of breath, with every step. He attempted to sprint and flailed, arms waving like a madman’s. His vocal cords felt raw. Through the white noise in his ears, he thought maybe he screamed as he went, and through his scream, he thought maybe he heard the slide and click of metal. 

His next two steps met with twin bangs.

Grisha barely felt himself falling. There was only the burst of pain - very slight, almost negligible - at the back of one collapsing leg, and the feeling of iron liquid filling up his chest, rising until it doused his misplaced organs, and sloshing higher still until it inundated his sinuses.

He fell on hands and knees, coughing and spewing what smelled like blood. He slipped on it, fell face first onto the floor, and tasted the cold bite of tile against his tongue. Someone brushed his hair up, gathering it in one hand. 

“Hey,” he heard someone say. Tremulous. Uncertain. Still vaguely familiar. “Wait. Maybe she didn’t mean -”

“You heard her, didn’t you?”

Grisha didn’t have time to think too deeply. He was screaming in the next moment - he was certain of it now - as something cold and sharp and grating sawed through his nape, cutting jaggedly through skin and sinew.

Still swathed in black, his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He convulsed. Grunted. Went limp.

\---

A minute more and Reiner had to look away. Nile’s black-jacketed back mimicked a hunched-over cellist’s, down to the right arm grinding through wet, snapping flesh.

Before this, he didn’t imagine such a thing could be heard. But here, under clinically fluorescent lights and the pin drop silence of The Killing Fields, his senses were amplified to hallucinatory proportions. If he didn’t look away, he was certain he was next going to hear Nile saw through Grisha Jaeger’s dying breaths.

Because the man yet breathed, of that he was sure. He caught the barely-there-but-still-there expansion/deflation of drowning lungs just before he had to tear his eyes away to look at something else.

As if it wasn’t enough to be in the old maximum security prison’s basement morgue, with fresh, neon blood spilling around them and floodlights beaming down like judgmental spotlights, Nile had to talk while he worked. 

Reiner didn’t want to hear it, but in the deathly quiet of the recently converted secret execution chamber - unofficially baptised ‘The Killing Fields’ by petrified inmates - he couldn’t help catching snippets of Nile’s muttered monologue, which at times was seasoned with accusatory fire, and at others, with warbling expectation.

True to its original purpose, the floor of the basement was built to slightly slope to its four corners for easy cleanup. Already, Grisha Jaeger’s blood was beginning to drain towards the gutter at one side of the room.

The little hairs on Reiner’s arms stood on end. At the very least, he could keep himself from watching the gutting and seeing its accompanying mess of nameless innards painting splotches on the gun laid down by Nile’s knees.

His eyes found the plastic cooler by the door, instead. Tendrils of icy smoke sifted in foggy tentacles from between its propped open lid. 

Nile cursed.

Automatically, involuntarily, Reiner’s attention snapped to his master and he winced in raw disgust. Nile’s elbow pistonned left to right as he worked through cartilage. It sounded like a serrated kitchen knife cutting through thick cardboard.

“She looked so lovely, didn’t she?” the Prime Minister’s voice was hollow, his words sounding like they came from the inside of a drum. His upper arm continued to jerk as he spoke. Red flashed at the end of his forearm. Dark sprays accompanied every forwards-backwards tug.

Reiner hoped he wasn’t expected to hold conversation.

“I said so before, didn’t I? That she’s the kind of woman men go to war for! And for good reason!”

No. To the best of Reiner’s remembrance, Nile used to talk about you in the context of “the kind of woman he wanted to fuck to tears”. But he was in no mood to correct his boss.

“Remember the way she looked, Reiner? How can anyone stand to forget the way she looked!” Nile sounded breathier and raspier. Your image, rosy, cold, and sharp all at once, floated in and out his fevered mind. “So innocent and angelic! But the words coming out of her mouth! The way she demanded Grisha Jaeger’s head. The head of Sina’s most influential man! As if it were so simple!”

Dread buzzed simultaneously from multiple points of Reiner’s body. He itched. He hurt. He felt like his limbs were falling asleep, or like he was being stung, on and off and on again, by a single, infinitely vicious bug.

Nile was sawing faster now. The grating sounds echoed. The thump of flesh squished and mopped in the pools of blood. The stench of meat, headier and disturbingly more aromatic than anything any butcher could dream up, permeated their nostrils.

Steel scrubbed against tile. Nile raised his arm. Above his latex glove, the pale sleeve of his dress shirt was flecked with stains. Spots of iridescent ruby glistened invisibly on the sleeve of his black jacket. His blade, an extension of his arm, winked white. 

He brought it down in a final  _ thwack _ .

Reiner swore the sound pelted straight down to Satan’s throne.

Nile lifted a bloody mass, hairy, vaguely round, and still dripping.

“It is simple,” he said. He spoke quietly now. Introspectively. “Grisha was such a naggy bitch. I wanted to strangle him myself sometimes.” Clambering to his feet, the sodden head raised to eye level, “I don’t know why I never did. But I guess it was for the best. This is infinitely more satisfying.” 

Nile contemplated his trophy. Except for a tiny spray of red spots on the exposed bits of his shirt and the damp blotches on his dark suit, he did not look the least bit blood-spattered. 

Then he spun on his heel, displaying the head for Reiner’s first full view. “What do you think?” he crooned, smile twisting crookedly into one jowl, “A treasure of a woman, isn’t she? I wish  _ I _ was the one who came up with this idea!” He shook Grisha’s severed head. Ropes of stringy red swayed slimily to the floor.

Personally, Reiner preferred not to look at the head any longer than was necessary. He strode to the exhaling ice box, picked it up, and held it open before Nile. 

“Go on, before it starts to rot.”

Nile gave the head another little shake, this time affectionately, dragged off its blindfolds, and grinned at it before finally dropping it into the container of dry ice. “Smart boy. Perishable gifts are better when fresh.” He chuckled at his own pun.

Reiner refused to comment. He shut the lid, sighing in relief when he heard the plastic slip locked.

Ridding himself of his bloody gloves, the Prime Minister wiped powdery hands on his trousers. Pausing to toe the late Grisha Jaeger’s contorted leg with a, “See ya, chump,” he strode to the door, snapping his fingers and clicking his tongue for Reiner. 

“Hurry up,” he called. “I can’t wait to show her what I’ve got.”

The only extenuating thing in all this, Reiner thought as he plodded after his boss with the soul-heavy cooler in his arms, was that the sooner they presented this tribute, the sooner they were redeemed. 

Nile stopped at the wall-mounted intercom by the exit, jabbed a button, and called into the static, “We’re ready for a hose down.”

A young, chipper voice crackled back, “Aye, sir. We’ll be right there.”

\---

You talked everyday. Every night, from ten o’clock to midnight, you stole away to some quiet, unoccupied corner of the perpetually populated Embassy House to have your fill, your daily dose, of Erwin.

You are my first love, darling. But if you insist on a childhood sweetheart, then I think it had to be this raucous little girl in my kindergarten class,” he said one night when the conversation turned nostalgic. From his end of the line, you could hear the soft rhythms of vintage blues, all soulful voices and frank lyrics.

“You have a type: wild girls. Feral, untameable girls.” You were pacing the backyard. It was the lawn, really, borderless right up to the shell of the old Embassy Building. Seen from the distance, the lines of scaffolding were spindly toothpicks graphing in the squat structure.

“Brave girls,” he murmured. “Lively girls. Clever girls who enjoy phone calls in the dark.”

“Sometime I sit in the kitchen,” you protested. “It’s light there.” It was only light because Jean, ironically the big bad man of security, was deathly afraid of ghosts. If he heard your disembodied voice in the dark, in the dead of the night to boot, you had no doubt he’d forget the glass of water he went to fetch and piss himself instead.

“All right,” Erwin rumbled, as if conceding some very great point, “Clever girls who sometimes make phone calls in the light.”

“That’s better,” you chuckled. The night chill was coming on colder now with the approaching tail end of autumn. You hugged yourself and quickened to a jog. “What about that little girl in your kindergarten class?”

There was a brush of cloth against cloth, like he was shrugging. “She slung mud at me at a school garden party. Got me full in the face. For a whole year I thought she was the sun.”

“Wow,” you said, genuinely struggling to imagine a tall-for-his-age kindergarten Erwin in a tiny button down and sharply pressed shorts, blinking through the mud sliding down his face. “That’s all it takes to make you fall in love? Throw mud in your face?”

That evoked a sentimental smile that became tangible in his voice. “You made a better effort.”

“Better effort how?” No matter what you did or how much you cajoled, Erwin refused to tell you exactly when, or how, he claimed to fall in love with you in university. 

Tonight was no different. “That’s for another time,” he said as he always did. “Now you tell me about your first love.”

You wracked your brains, digging into the whirlwind of faces until an idea came to you. The person in mind was now really no more than a blur, but the mere thought of mentioning him made you grin in triumph. Casually,

“My first love was the boy who took my virginity.”

Silence followed your words. A silence, you imagined, broken only by the grinding gears in Erwin’s head. You could almost visualize the furrow of his generous eyebrows and the twitching of his mouth, as if he was working out the ideas running rapid-fire through his brain.

“That’s not true,” he said at last, with the hint of a lopped off question mark at the end; with the shadow of a discarded  _ is it? _

“I don’t know,” you sing-songed, working to suppress the snort punching out of you. “This is my story, after all.”

“Tell me about this boy.”

Your face-splitting grin was wicked. “I’m outside. I could be overheard.” 

“Go inside, then.”

You crinkled your nose. “But I’m enjoying looking at the stars.”

He groaned his complaint.

“Maybe it’s a story for another time.”

Another time came near midnight, one of Erwin’s old-timey songs waltzing from the light of your laptop. You lay against your pillows, phone on loudspeaker. He was talking softly, wishfully, about all the places he would take you to when you could finally get together.

“There’s a lakeside cabin,” he said, “at central Sina. It’s beautiful in summer.”

It was nearing winter. You thought of Erwin all bundled up, brushing snow from your hair, and suddenly remembered him as he appeared on repatriation day in his dark suit and dark coat - sharp, masculine, and outlined all in black.

“I can’t wait that long.”

“It’s beautiful in winter, too. Cosy. It has a fireplace. And not many people go in winter.”

You hummed, content at the thought. You and he could be alone. Blissfully alone. 

“Remember that boy?” You mumbled idly, inordinately relaxed and lost in your daydream of a wintry cabin in the middle of nowhere with a god among men.

“What boy?”

Erwin’s voice was so perfect. Perfect for telling secrets. Perfect for unearthing and telling buried stories. The slow, steady jazz you put on in his honour only served to complement it.

“We were talking of winter and I just remembered.” Remembered the heavy snow that day that trapped you and he in and his parents out. The heavy snow that cut the power. “We huddled by the fire he built.” It was so cold and there was nothing to do and you were both curious. “I lost my virginity on the rug in front of his fireplace.”

Erwin recovered his wits faster this time. “I, too, have built many fires in my day.” He sounded juvenilely affronted. “I was a boy scout, you know.”

“Of course you were,” you laughed, drunk on lazy joy. That was the first you heard of it, but it was just like Erwin to be the ultimate accomplished child. “I’d fuck you in front of your fireplace, too. In your cabin by the lake.”

“I’ll make love to you, darling.”

You sighed happily.

“I’ll have you making those sounds all night.” His tone dropped a couple of octaves. In the dark, with your eyes closed, it was so easy to recall all your previous encounters, every single one of them delicious.

You groaned throaty assent. “You always do it so well.”

“It’ll be better this time.” His voice filled every space, capturing you and folding you in and sinking you down. “We’ll make love for its own sake. We’ll take our time. I’ll taste you first, sweetheart, over and over until you’re spent.”

You clenched your legs and stifled a needy moan.

“I love watching you. I’m going to hold you open for my own enjoyment.” He spoke huskily. “Do you know that I watch you for too long, you start moving your hips?”

No, no you did not. But that mortifying knowledge ignited a fire of lust in you.

“My favourite part is unwrapping you like a present -” Shaped by his whispers, you felt him acutely by your side, his fingertips dancing from collar to pubic bone. Shivering, you traced your nails down that most vivid trail. “- kissing my way up from ankles to knees, to the inside of your thighs.”

Said thighs rubbed against the clenching between them. The friction was inadequate.

“You’re very soft, my darling,” he drawled, half-lidded and lusty. “I adore your legs. And I can’t think of anything better than to kiss you between those legs. Loving you until you squirm. Parting you for my eyes only. Seeing you drip with want for me.”

Whimpering in frustration, you shucked off your pyjama shorts and underwear, spread your legs, and finally,  _ finally _ , stroked that needy place.

“Are you touching yourself?” Knowing.

You nodded, found your clit, and let out a keening moan.

“You sound so good.”

This elicited another moan, louder and deeper, for good measure.

“Are you wet, sweetheart?”

The pet name, like all his terms of endearment, made you shudder with desire. “Yes,” you gasped. “Very.” Your body followed his narrative, your fingers skimming up and down your damp slit, obediently prodding through the folds. 

He made a pleased noise. The vision of him, in full lust, flashed through your imagination, and you wondered what he looked like when he made love. Wondered whether his love was punctuated with animal desire, or whether it was like this, languid and deliberate, with his hand guiding yours as you -

“Ah!” Your finger slipped in. Your spine coiled; stiffened. 

“You’re just as wonderful inside.” He didn’t miss anything. “Hot, tight, and very, very wet. I love the way you smell, the way you taste, when you’re ready for me.”

“Erwin -” Your finger had gone all the way to the last knuckle and your head was thrown back in pleasure as you pumped yourself. And still it was not enough.

“What do you want, love? Tell me.”

You wanted him to be here. You needed him to be by your side, kissing your forehead as he filled you with his fingers and coaxed you to the brink of pleasure.

But you could only make gasping sounds. 

Frustration beaded at the base of your throat. You could feel the heat creep up your neck. Almost, almost, but not quite there. It felt nowhere near like him. It wasn’t enough.

“Use two fingers.” His voice streamed into your lust-fogged senses. After the last withdrawal, you reached back into yourself with an additional digit and instantly moaned at the satisfying stretch.

“Gently, darling. Carefully, just as if you were stroking something very, very precious.”

Your fingers curled to the tune of his words, fell almost all the way out, and brushed a fluttering, throbbing spot. White flecked behind your eyes. You stammered a cry.

“There you go.” His words were a tumbling rivulet. “Does it feel as good as when I touch you?”

Your responses were coming in sharp little pants. Distended from your body, you heard yourself, all your needy noises and sloppy, wet sounds, and felt the periodic bursts of mounting pleasure from your nether regions. Your head tossed on your pillow, chasing, chasing -

“Do you want me to use my mouth?”

You groaned.

“Tell me. I’m dying to taste you. To eat you out and drink you up while my fingers are bone deep inside you.”

You made another high-pitched noise, like a pinched scream. You were nearly there. So very nearly there you could see gratification flicking towards you, feel it lick your salt-speckled skin. 

“I - I -”

“Use your words, love.”

You heaved. “Yes. Yes. P-please.”

“Are you close?”

So close it was blinding. So very close there was no more body, no more fingers or legs, or pussy. So desperate there was only Erwin and his voice and his magic words and the buzzing promise of release jolting, spreading, reaching all over you.

“When you’re about to come, you tremble.” Everything about him resonated. Your brain vibrated his essence. “That’s your body asking me to suck you as hard as I can, to use my tongue all over you. You leak desire, sweetheart. You get it all over my hands and my mouth and I can’t get enough. I love how you tighten around me, how you drag in my fingers. So wanting -”

“Erwin. Erwin.” Your back was arching so sharply it felt like it might snap. Multicoloured spots danced behind your eyes.

“I know.” His voice grew soft. “You’re ready. Come, then, darling. Let it go. Come on my hand. Come for me.”

White exploded behind your eyes. Pleasure burst from your pelvis, shooting up your spine straight into your head. Your mouth fell open, your teasing fingers hilted deep inside yourself. You felt yourself pulse, felt your body pump pleasure like blood.

The all at once you fell boneless onto your bed. Now oversensitive, your body spat out your invading fingers, alien appendages washed slick with your orgasm.

“Did that feel good?”

You turned your head. Your phone was still by your pillow, blaring the name  _ M.P. Erwin Smith _ on the screen. You blinked hazily. You had to change that contact name. 

But later. Later.

“Yes,” you croaked. It felt better than anything you tried just by yourself. 

“You were fantastic,” he murmured, all buttery comfort. You gulped and tried to school your breathing into a more reasonable pace. “Are you tired?”

“Yes.” Very much. And also just slightly embarrassed that you had him listen to you touch yourself. Had him hear you come while you were at it.

“Get under the blankets, then. Rest. You did very, very well.”

“But what about you?” Cum was drying on your hand and your bare lower half was getting cold. The embarrassment was morphing into self-consciousness. “I haven’t -”

_ Gotten you off? _

The words seemed so vulgar after everything. You couldn’t say them.

“Not tonight,” he murmured. “I want tonight to be all about you. I want you to take. As much and as selfishly as you possibly can. You’ve already given too much of yourself.”

He talked you into drowsiness. Mumbled sweet nothings until, finally cocooned in your sheets, your body began to drift and you were grasping at his words as you tried to recall that thing you were certain you forgot. You forced your eyes open, blinked at the ceiling, and thought hard. Thought back to what brought this on -

“Oh!” Instantly wide awake.

“What, love?”

You laughed. “I remember now! You started this because you were jealous of that boy. Of his rug and his fireplace.”

Erwin managed dignified affront. “I was not. I’m sure I know more about you than he. I do not need to be jealous of a bumbling youth -”

“No,” you agreed, muffling convulsive laughter, “you don’t. He really only put the tip in. I cried when he drew blood. We never tried it again.”

That night, Erwin felt vaguely swindled, but for once, could find no words.

\---

The attack was carried out in broad daylight, near the interior palace, just beyond the fringes of a gaggle of tourists. 

On an anonymous cue, a handful of defectors sprinkled across squadrons patrolling the private wing of the Reiss Royal Palace massacred as many of their teammates as they could before charging, as a band, into the living spaces of the palace. 

The wing where the Queen resided and held office was separated from the public spaces by a wide courtyard and was accessible only through a narrow gate. While the smashed squads radioed for backup and straggled for their bearings, Titans disguised as royal guards beat down the ancient gate and laid siege to the private wing. 

Within minutes from the invasion, a thundering tremor radiated across the palace from its epicentre somewhere in the heart of the inner wing. Tourists flooded out from every orifice of the public wing, evacuated en masse by rattled tour guides and herded out by palace security who bellowed over everyone’s heads till their jugulars were fit to burst.

Overhead, a chopper’s blades whipped the panic into a frenzy. Men, women, and children, holding on to hairs and shirts and skirts and various bits of belongings, shouted and pointed, watching the bobbing helicopter as it, in turn, oversaw a vomit of Royal Guards in full combat gear stream into the interior palace.

Black smoke was already beginning to float up from the southern halls.

Inside, the news circulated amongst the Titans that the queen could not be found. They swept the inner palace from room to room, firing at artwork and looting whatever small find they could pocket.

Blow the whole joint up, one of them suggested, and the whole gang of mercenaries agreed that this was the only acceptable solution to the problem of the missing monarch. Trash the place and kill everyone who did not belong to them. The brat won’t be able to stand it and will turn up.

Curtains were set ablaze. Priceless antiques were slashed and smashed and furniture gouged to their bare bones. The men spit on every picture of the royal family and tore paintings of Queen Historia right across the neck.

“Burn with your palace!” one of them roared, framed in destruction, arms and bayonet raised to the gilded ceiling. “We will destroy your palace just as we destroyed your Embassy and kill you just as we slaughtered your diplomats!”

The shouting put him within sight of a novice Royal Guard who, shocked by the violence on his first tour of duty, cried a harrowed scream as he charged the man and smashed his face in with the butt of his rifle. He was still standing over the mangled face and twitching body, firearm still held aloft, when a senior teammate barked at him and wrenched him by the shoulder away from his first kill.

“Get your shit together,” his superior snarled. They jogged down the southern halls together. “There’s more where that came from. And fucking shoot, why don’t you?”

Further down, a compatriot staggered out of a drawing room with his own battered captive. The Titan spat blood and teeth as he skudded across the mosaic floor by his heels, and bared red-streaked gums at the approaching soldiers.

“Historia will die and that will be the end of Maria!”

His captor dragged him to a burning curtain, shot him in the back, and shoved him into the flame. While the three soldiers watched, the novice with wide eyes and curdling blood, the Titan caught fire and screamed as his skin melted and his hair was set ablaze. He reared up, head bent backwards to hell and eyes turned to heaven, his fingers like claws frozen in mid-air.

Muzzles first, the Royal Guards moved on. The fire had crawled to the ceiling and showered plaster in their wake.

In half an hour, the private wing of the Reiss Royal Palace was smoking from its ears. Little fires, having clambered up, flickered on the pointed tips of the blue rooftops. The sky above the palace was grey.

The manhunt for all loose Titans was still ongoing.

The Queen was still missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kindergarten!Erwin and Reader's loss of her v-card are sponsored by Chats with K. I legit cannot get over mini Erwin and pouty Daddy Erwin. "Use your words" is also my absolute fave ultra-soft, super-daddy line. <3 Aaaaand it's a pet headcanon of mine that Erwin is a very visual lover. He riles himself up by watching and remembering everything and is very observant. That's why he can pull off phone sex. (And that Commander Daddy voice >///<)
> 
> As for Nile, I have nothing to say for myself.
> 
> P.S. Eren writers, help me out here. Drop me character notes, tips, observations, and concrit! I'm not normally an Eren writer so getting into his head is super hard for me! T^T


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously, Erwin collected alliances in Parliament and Grisha Jaeger literally lost his head.

One night, Eren didn’t return home. Mikasa was beside herself with worry. 

He didn’t call, she said. Won’t pick up any of hers, either.

Armin said he was going to meet someone. Didn’t say who or where he was going.

You joked that maybe he had a secret rendezvous. You were sure he’d show up at the office the next day. His friends weren’t so sure. You were.

And you were right. Eren turned up at the office bright and early the next morning, reeking of drink and looking like the beginnings of a brawl nipped in the bud. You spirited him away to the pantry, shoved aspirin and a glass of water at him, and told him to take a sick day.

“No,” he gritted. His eyes were half-lidded and printed with shadows underneath. “I can work. I’ve never - never - called in sick before. Not gonna start now.” He swayed a little. “`Sides, Jean and I -”

You tore the aspirin from his forgetful, flapping hand, popped them out, and stuffed them into his mouth. Eren swallowed, coughed, and drained his glass of sloshing water.

“- Jean and I -” Slurred.

You were already pushing him towards the door and walking him to the exit. “Take a half day off, then. Get some sleep. Shower before you come back in the afternoon, for god’s sake. Have mercy on Mike. And on yourself, because if Levi sees you coming into work like this, he’ll whip your ass.”

Eren stumbled out of the office and wobbled away from the building. You hoped he managed to find his way home.

That afternoon, he returned already showered. His suit was straight and he was sober. Abnormally bright-eyed. You caught only a glimpse of him as you passed through the glassed-in offices of the Consular Department on the way to Mike’s office. Bafflingly, he refused to look your way.

Maybe he didn’t see you, you thought. Or maybe he was still a little out of it. You shrugged it off and carried on. 

That night, he appeared at your door, sheepish and remorseful, bearing a bottle and two shot glasses. “Spare a bit of time to talk?”

You were winding down and already in pyjamas. Eren’s eyes drifted to the phone in your hand. He was instantly crestfallen.

“Oh.” Your nocturnal phone calls were becoming a well-known routine. Eren actually backtracked several steps. “Some other time, then. Sorry.”

“Hey,” you called before he could run off. You and Erwin both looked forward to your nightly conversations, but something in Eren’s expression and tone gave you pause. 

“It’s okay,” you heard yourself say. “I’m in the mood for shots tonight.”

Eren shot you his brightest grin. As you made your way upstairs to the third floor, you texted Erwin, excusing yourself and promising to call if you finished before midnight. Eren led you to a room at the end of the rowdy hall.

“That bad a day, huh,” you mused. “Saint Marco’s Confessional level bad.”

He gave you a weak grin.

Even after Marco’s personal effects were cleared out and repatriated with his remains, everyone stuck to the unspoken rule that his room was going to remain untouched. And so it was that during his lifetime and after his death, Marco’s room continued to be a refuge for heart-heavy young diplomats to pour out their ills and hide away from the world for a little while. 

Saint Marco’s Confessional, someone once jokingly called it, and the name stuck. It was bare of everything now but for bedspreads on the mattress which somebody always, unfailingly, remembered to change every week. 

You flipped the light switch and made a beeline for the bed. Eren locked the door after himself and set his burden down on the nightstand. 

Tequila. He poured two glasses, slid one over to you, dragged Marco’s desk chair to the bedside, and sat down. “To liquid courage,” he sighed with an ironic smirk. Your glasses clinked. He downed his shot in one go and immediately poured himself a second round. 

Eren gulped the second shot without really tasting it and exhaled like he had just emerged from the ocean. The bottom of the empty shot glass smacked on the night stand. 

You twirled your drink, watching ripples fan out across the crystal liquid.

He licked away the smear of tequila on his lips. “I went to see...my old man...last night.”

You tipped the contents of your glass into your mouth and swallowed hard. The liquor razed a path up and down the back of your throat. Your eyes watered. “How’d it go?”

His eyes narrowed into slits. “Cut the bull -” He huffed, frustrated, and with tight tranquility tried instead, “Cut it out. You know who my father is. It’s on my record. I know you read it. You’re Chief of Staff.”

“Thought you might want to be the one to tell me about it,” you murmured, setting your glass down on the night stand beside his. Eren grabbed the bottle and poured. Pale drops splattered on the polished surface between them. 

“What’s there to tell? My dad’s a terrorist. He killed people. He killed Marco and now I’m in Marco’s old room to talk about him!” He drank with exaggerated relish. The tiny cup vanished in his palm. He brought it down in a fist, squeezed, and relented. Glass clattered on wood.

He looked so stricken, so desperately in need of a good, inebriating drink, that you couldn’t resist joking, “You can take the whole bottle. You need it more.”

Eren laughed mirthlessly. After a little while, his fist slipped between his knees and he mumbled, “I’m sorry. For all that crap I said to you. I had this figured all wrong. This...diplomacy shit isn’t all I imagined it to be.”

You smiled dryly back.

“I thought diplomacy was about helping people. Innocent things like replacing missing passports and picking up phone calls from the idiot who missed his plane on the last valid date of his visa. At most, maybe packing up the corpse of an old thrill-seeker dead in bed with a prostitute. At worst.”

You had to laugh, and pointed out, “You’re doing all those things.” He was at the front line of the Consular Department. Helping people was all in a day’s work.

You received a weak smile for your effort. “My old man told me all about it. About Rod Reiss and the deal they cut. About the king selling his own people short and my father -” he winced at the admission, “- getting into the game to make his own fortune. He wanted to own entire countries and he killed people to do it. He became a terrorist to do it.” Eren’s head dipped in shame for the sins of his father, his voice dropping to little more than a strained whisper. “My father is a terrorist.”

_ And I ordered his death _ , you thought. Instead, you said, “Did you want to talk about him tonight?”

He nodded. He did. Between gulps of acid tequila, Eren talked about Grisha as he remembered him, in innocent phrases and through the lens of childhood recollections, drifting from loneliness to bitterness to disappointment over what his father had become.

“He even dared to say he did it all for me and my mother! As if it would make my mother proud to know that he killed people and stole their money for his own gains!” The chopped strands of his hair sifted violently as he shook his head. “He even told me I was still his heir! -”

You paused on your way to a sip. He was, you realised, still Grisha’s heir.

If Grisha died -  _ when _ he died - all his assets, his properties, holdings, businesses, and stashes of secret wealth, would go to Eren. Every policy and deal made between Maria and Sina would affect Eren’s interests. If the boy chose to pick up where his father left off, he would become the new enemy. If he struggled for his interests, he would be struggling against...you. Or Levi. Or Erwin.

Eren peered curiously at you.

Throat parched, eyes hooded with dizzy realisation, you thought, This boy is Grisha’s boy.

“What’s with your face?” Eren’s brows pushed up straight into the middle of his forehead. “You’re all white. You look like you’re about to faint. Or run screaming from me.” He snickered. “Or both.”

The idea of this bright, happy boy turning on you, on Levi and the Embassy and everything he swore he held dear, was unfathomable. 

“Listen Eren,” you said, “It’s true. You are Grisha Jaeger’s heir. And one day, you will be called to your inheritance. You grabbed his wrist and squeezed. “When that time comes, will you choose to be Grisha’s successor, or will you choose to remain Eren Jaeger, as you are now?”

Eren snorted and waved indifferently, the shot glass in his hand glinting under the lamplight. “There’s nothing to choose. I’ve told - Grisha - that I’m not interested in anything that stinks of him.” He grinned, young, carefree, and boyish. “I’ll always be  _ this _ Eren Jaeger. The one everyone likes best.”

Then he peeled himself off the bed. “I’ve talked your ears off. Lemme get us a drink.”

He poured, shot after shot. And he drank, shot after shot, imbibing the liquor faster and in greater volume than you’d ever seen him drink before. He drank until he was sloshing spots of tequila blanca on himself and slightly swaying in his seat.

“What will you do with your inheritance when your father dies?” you pressed. The matter swarmed like a nest of hornets in your mind.

Eren slurred a groan. “I don’t know. I don’t care. Who cares?”

You cared. Sinian politicians cared. Hell, the entire business community cared.

“If you don’t come forward to claim it, it’ll all be escheated in favour of the government, you know.”

Eren looked a few shots away from becoming black-out drunk. “Don’t know, don’t care. Let them have it. Break it up and distribute it to the poor!” He swiped for the bottle and missed. You pressed its neck into his palm before he accidentally knocked it to the floor. As soon as his fingers closed around the glass, he brought it up and chugged tequila straight. 

Your tiny glass sat forgotten. The alcohol in it shuddered with the bang of Eren’s empty bottle meeting the nightstand. He squinted at the shining rim, then tiled it towards you. 

“I am  _ not _ my father’s son. I  _ will not  _ be associated with Grisha Jaeger, the Titan!”

An idea crept up on you.

“Are you drinking that?” Referring to the contents of your neglected shot glass.

“No,” you shook your head, sliding it towards him. “Help yourself.” And as he did, you sat back and watched the heir to Sina drink himself into a blind stupor.

You just thought of the best use for Eren’s imminent inheritance.

\---

People like this, Olou Bozado thought, were the absolute worst. The runners. It was because idiots like them couldn’t quietly stay in their prison cells that he was spending what was supposed to be a relaxing weekday evening out in the backwoods of suburban Mitras with his team of similarly put-out boys, instead of at a nice, romantic dinner date like the one to which he’d hoped to take Petra Ral.

He stomped as quietly as he could through tall grass and sparse tree cover. Called in late that afternoon, he and his team were tasked to sniff out the whereabouts of Grisha Jaeger, the most prominent detainee, and also the most recent escapee, of maximum security prison. 

Olou had plenty to say about it. He wasn’t about to be told that he led his squad on that midnight arrest to take down Grisha Jaeger only to have some foolish warden bungle the man’s custody?

But there was nothing to be done about it now. The bugger needed to be found and Olou, he was told, was the only one who could do that.

And so, fuelled by ego and puffed smugness, Olou Bozado found himself on the phone begging Petra Ral to reschedule, while he assembled his men. When the woman agreed to give him one last chance, he and his team donned their dark suits and night vision lenses, packed enough arms and munitions to last them a week in hostile territory, and drove several kilometres to the wilderness at the fringes of Mitras.

There, it was believed, was where Grisha Jaeger ran off to and chose to hide.

It had been a couple of hours since and Olou and his squad were making no progress. He was getting ready to regroup to change tactics when the rumble of an engine not so far away broke the quiet of their search. 

The team straightened, unfolding like stalks of wheat come alive against the blue-black night. Olou’s headpiece crackled with a message from the left flank man. 

“A few ways away west, sir, towards the middle of the woods. They passed by me. Two men,” the operative said before sounding slightly puzzled, “and a semi-warm cargo.”

It was too late to return to their car. Clutching his weapon tighter against himself, Olou ordered pursuit. As one, his squad trampled through foliage in the direction of the putting engine. In a few moments, the excited voice of the left flank man, who had taken the lead, rang through their headsets.

“I see them! They’re slowing!”

The squad fanned out and advanced in a quiet run until they came within earshot of the red, green, and yellow blobs registered on the temperature lenses. Then the squad scattered, crouching in the tall grass, their targets squarely sighted.

There were two people - two men, if Olou was going to hazard a more precise guess - clambering out of their vehicle. The engine was running, its hood a glowing red trapezoid on the temperature sights. Strangely, the headlights were turned off.

The two men didn’t speak to each other as they fumbled in the backseat, tossing off the tarpaulin cover over their semi-warm cargo. They began unloading.

Olou crouched lower. Finger by the trigger, and eyes never straying from their targets, he issued the engagement orders.

“Closest to front and rear wheels, get ready to take them out ar my signal. Confirm your names and positions.”

The murmured confirmations came in.

“Clearest sights on moving subjects. Aim for shoulders. Incapacitate. Do not kill. Confirm your names and positions.”

The confirmations rolled in once more.

Olou was practically stroking the trigger now. “On count of three,” he whispered, “we announce ourselves and light em’ up. Any attempt at flight, take the motherfucker down and blow the wheels if needed.”

The responses, equally quiet, were firm. “Roger, Captain.”

“Now, then…” he licked his lips. “One… Two…”

His own sight was set on one of the two men, his target flickering between shoulder and chest as the man moved.

“...Three.”

The squad burst from the surrounding wood. Bright spotlights flooded everything in the middle of their circle, illuminating an idling jeep and two men in wardens’ uniforms and dark jackets. A headless body slid from between them and thudded onto the grass.

“Hands up.” Olou stalked forward, the barrel of his rifle unwavering. The two men gingerly raised their arms. The rest of the squad darted forward to wrench their hands behind their backs, march them away, and search their jeep. 

“Just blood-stained tarps on the floor, sir.”

Nobody mentioned the corpse half-buried in the waving grass. 

Forcing himself not to grimace, Olou crouched and shone a pen light over the body. It had been dragged out by its arms and legs and had fallen on its back, reaching with starfish limbs in all directions. 

He pulled out his phone. Eld picked up on the second ring. Olou already hated the fact that every bad episode of this Grisha Jaeger business was a direct request from Intel, which meant it was most probably also a direct request from even shadier higher-ups. That Eld was apparently sitting by his phone the whole time this mission was underway just added to the nasty feelings Olou had about this.

“Good news?” Eld did not sound as excited as Olou thought he would be.

“The only escapees we found,” he replied, “are a pair of dolts dressed as jail wardens, with a headless body in tow.”

Eld went quiet for a moment. Then, “That’s it. That’s Grisha Jaeger. Your escaping cadaver.”

A wave of confused disgust washed over Olou. “What the fuck, Eld!” He stumbled away from the corpse, suddenly unable to look at it anymore. “The fuck do you mean ‘escaping cadaver’? You expected this all along? You sent my squad here to play extra in your theatrical production?”

Eld shushed him. “Listen,” he said, tone exceedingly serious. Completely unfazed, as if this was the only acceptable outcome and he expected this exactly. “Someone’s very interested in that body. Those wardens you caught - they’re alive, I assume?”

“No shots were fired on either end,” Olou grumbled.

Eld made an approving noise. “Let them go. Once they’ve had a headstart, call in the body.”

“We caught wardens dumping Grisha Jaeger’s headless body in the middle of nowhere and you want us to let them go?”

“Olou,” Eld said again, this time in a tone that brooked no protest, “You will release those men. Grisha Jaeger escaped from maximum security prison and was killed and beheaded in an ambush by an unknown suspect. As the squad leader in charge of his pursuit, you found his corpse and called in the discovery. Crime lab is on its way. You will secure the site while waiting for them to arrive.”

Olou grumbled under his breath. But Eld was a level-headed, procedure-abiding man. And he always knew what he was doing.

“Fine. I understand.” He turned to his team, every member of which stared expectantly, and hated what he was about to do next. “Let the bastards go.”

Mixed expressions of surprise and confusion flitted across the squad’s faces. Their prisoners merely shrugged themselves free, straightening their clothes as if this outcome was expected; was inevitable. With nary another look at Grisha Jaeger’s corpse, both men swung into their jeep, revved the engine, and drove off.

They vanished into the rustling shadows of foliage, the fading sounds of their chugging motor giving way to the rotary chuffing of a helicopter led to the squad’s location by their still shining floodlights. It swayed to a landing several meters away and almost immediately began disgorging white suited agents with “Crime Scene Operatives” plastered in dark blue across their backs. 

The new arrivals waded purposefully through the tall grass, knowing only that there was a crime scene to be processed.

Perhaps, Olou told himself, this was how it was meant to be, with the lot of them - little people, bottom feeders and near-bottom feeders - never knowing the truth.

\---

A parking lot was a parking lot, no matter how goddamn posh the place it belonged to, Reiner thought, digging himself into the driver’s seat of the unmarked black car he and Nile chose to take to maximum security.

And underground parking lots, in his humble opinion, were wrecks, all low, concrete ceilings and floodlights, smelling of car exhaust and stale rubber. And no smoking signs, such as the one plastered on the post directly beside him. 

Well now he desperately needed a smoke.

In the backseat, Nile Dawk was quietly muttering to himself. Muttering smug things about how he was still Prime Minister and how, despite the threat (imagined, really, by those nitwits in Parliament) of expulsion, he still held considerable clout.

Which was true, if Reiner were to be fair. He was the one who rang up the director of the maximum security prison about using The Killing Fields. The man had not put up any sort of protest, but only asked that the Prime Minister give Grisha Jaeger a few more days. Let him receive a few more visitors, just for show. Just so nobody seemed overly eager to do him in.

Neither Nile nor Reiner had even thought of that, but it was a sensible suggestion and the Prime Minister was feeling generous. He readily obliged.

He even put on a suit for the occasion. After all, he said to Reiner, from The Killing Fields, he would be entering directly into a meeting of the utmost importance. And he was still Prime Minister. He had to look the part.

He needled Reiner into following his example.

The head warden helped them figure it all out: they would stage an escape while the killing was being carried out. Then Grisha’s body, divested of its head, would be driven several kilometres away from the prison, dumped, and “discovered” by a search team in a couple of hours. That way, investigations turn up the same conclusion: Grisha Jaeger bribed a jail guard, hightailed it out of prison, and on the way, was overtaken by rouges who, for some reason known only to them, took his head after shooting him dead.

And so with that cut-and-dried, airtight plan, Reiner and his boss turned up on a weekday afternoon to relieve Grisha Jaeger of the burden of this life.

Reiner closed his eyes and tilted his head back. The scene replayed in his mind, complete with the sound of splintering bone, the arches of spraying blood and the gurgling of them as they spilled and drained on the tile.

Fuck it, he thought, reaching for a cigarette and lighting up. The car and everything in it would smell like shit, but that was preferable to the stench of pungent fear and acrid human cortisol emanating from Nile in the backseat.

Smoke drifted from his mouth. Reiner reached up to adjust the rearview mirror until it displayed only Nile Dawk. If he had a choice, he wouldn’t be in here, stuck in an enclosed car with an unhinged old fart whose most prized possession was a cooler containing a tycoon’s severed head.

But he knew the stakes. That video, courtesy of the very tycoon whose head was in an ice box at the unhinged old fart’s feet, had bound his fate unbreakably to Nile’s, and this was his last shot at salvation.

Nile’s mutterings broke off into a louder question. “Is it nine o’clock yet?”

“Not yet,” Reiner replied. His throat felt scratchy. 

It was very nearly nine o’clock. Very nearly office opening hours. But he wasn’t ready. Wasn’t ready to get out of the car with his boss. Wasn’t ready to make the trip up the skyscraper to the Embassy offices. Just for a little while more, he wanted to sit and savour a few extra minutes of normalcy before everything could probably, irrevocably, spiral into madness.

He sucked on his cigarette and let himself fill up with smoke. His wristwatch ticked. 

_ Eight fifty-eight.  _

_ Eight fifty-nine. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously debated whether to upload this now or wait until all chapters till the end have been typed up, but I think this part of the story has been more or less permanently smoothed, so I caved. 
> 
> I took a looooooong break (lasted two weeks smh) because July was just a suckerpunch of the burnout and self-doubt that inevitably hits every writer (if you're sunk in a similar state and reading this, know that it'll get better and you'll feel better. Aja!) Then when I was beginning to pick it back up mid-July, work left-hooked me. I've been word vomiting legal documents since, and reworking the rest of this story at snail's pace when I wasn't feeling lazy.
> 
> Atm, I've typed to about six chapters ahead, but we'll see about update frequency. At the very least, I aim to edit and update as soon as I finish typing an advance chapter.
> 
> Shoutout to attackonfics, who I follow on tumblr, and whose sweet LevixReader stories have kept me afloat this whole time.
> 
> Hope everyone's safe and healthy!


	24. Chapter 24

The catacombs under the Royal Palace wound deeper and longer than Historia expected. Dot Pixis talked as they walked, his voice sinking into the bedrock walls as explosions and the sounds of muffled violence thudded above their heads. 

Despite the obvious annoyance in the queen’s stomping footfalls, she froze up every so often, her eyes flying up to the dirt ceiling with every dull boom.

“The roof won’t cave,” Dot assured her. From the relatively more modern electric-lit cavern chambers from which they originated, they had wandered into a part of the catacombs lined only with primitive torches. Pixis grabbed one, struck a flame, and carried on. “These tunnels have been here for centuries, and have withstood all forms of attack.”

“Yet you never saw fit to inform me about them,” Historia grumbled.

The old advisor bit back a smile, thinking he had finally gotten to the root of the queen’s anger. “It was purely unintentional, Majesty.” 

He really didn’t mean to keep it a secret. They had just been so busy with this Titan madness stirring up the revolutionary spirit in their people that he barely had time to think of anything else. 

“No one expected the Titans to mount a direct attack on the Royal Palace, so these subterranean hideouts just slipped my mind.”

Historia ignored him as another explosion rippled over them and she suddenly wondered whether these tunnels have ever had to deal with bombings before - specifically, the bombing of the Palace above them. Then she decided she was better off not knowing, and said instead,

“How many people know of these parts?” Mostly to fill the silence between the puffs of their breaths.

“Not many.”. From the firelight of Dot’s torch, the rest of the twisting tunnels seemed interminable. “Knowledge of these underground rooms are limited only to the reigning monarch and to a few trusted aides. They were dug when the Royal Palace was built, to serve as temporary hideout and escape route in case of attack. But until now, they went unused for a hundred years.”

“Escape route?” Historia echoed.  _ Unused for a hundred years until now. Until you,  _ zinged around her mind. The thought didn’t sit right with her. She halted, furious unease creeping into her tone and features. “Stop right there, Dot!”

The bobbing light stilled. Dot Pixis’ white-shirted back blazed orange.

“I am not going to escape. I am queen of Maria and I will not run and hide while the Titans take over my palace!”

Sparks snapped into the dancing light. After another beat, Dot Pixis resumed his leisurely pace. “A living queen is of more use to Maria than a dead one, Your Majesty.”

Historia bit her lips. Dot Pixis and his circle of light faded farther and father away with every second of her hesitation. Just before he disappeared from earshot and left her in literal darkness, she called,

“What use is a living queen that people want to depose?”

That came out more bitter than she expected. The Titan raid on the Royal Palace had left civilians injured. That, coupled with her complete disappearance - cowardly, some have deigned to describe it - so seriously undermined the authority of “the bastard queen” that talks of revolution grew louder and spilled out into the streets.

Dot’s reply echoed back almost comically. “The people do not actually want to depose Your Majesty. They are simply uncertain, and are giving vent to that uncertainty in the most natural, most human way that they know.”

Involuntarily, Historia’s legs propelled her forward until she caught up to Dot and his circle of light. 

“And what way is that?”

“Complaining.” He actually chuckled.

“But the critics are getting bolder.”

“As Your Majesty should expect them to.” Dot kept his eyes forward. In a few more bends, they would come to the tunnels’ exit. “Queens, like all public figures, are believed to be born with thick skin, and are expected to keep growing them in everlasting layers for the rest of their lives.”

Historia trusted Dot with all manner of things, but complacency about the perpetuity of her reign was not one of them. Ever since her own people baptised her “the bastard queen”, she became painfully aware of the fact that amongst her forefathers, she was to be the Reiss who had to earn her days on her throne.

“Maria is used to monarchs,” Dot Pixis said by way of reassuring her. “She likes her kings and queens.”

But by the tight line of Historia’s mouth, he knew she didn’t believe him. 

“Where do these tunnels end?” she said instead, question tight; tense.

He let the matter die. If not talking about it and neglecting to assuage her fears made Historia a better queen, then Dot Pixis was content to let her brew in her soup of paranoia.

“The royal gardens,” he replied. “Specifically, the rose garden.”

Historia started. “The  _ rose garden _ ?” Palace guidebooks often mentioned the Royal Rose Gardens as the place where, in the days of regular, formal balls, lovers would quietly steal to for a private hour or two. Despite this history, and despite the accompanying photograph of a meticulously manicured explosion of roses, the garden itself, as well as the surrounding parks, were declared part of the private wing and kept strictly closed to the public.

Historia often wondered why.

“If your Majesty remembers,” Pixis explained, adopting a professorial tone, “the rose garden is planted on a little knoll overlooking the Palace and its grounds. Within it is a shed built to be an inconspicuous lookout for use by the personal spies of the royal family and by trusted members of the Royal Guard. The rose garden was planted around it for camouflage.”

The queen stared at his back askance. Old man Pixis liked to make jokes, and delivered them so often, with a straight face every time, that she had taken to second-guessing some of the trivia he spouted. 

“That’s not what the guidebooks say.”

Her companion chuckled. “That romantic backstory? Pure fantasy.” He waved a hand for effect. “The rose garden is too far away from the Palace ballrooms to be walked, especially in party clothes. It was intentionally placed in the guidebooks - and kept as an entry - for the sole purpose of throwing suspicion off it.” Winking over his shoulder at his queen, “Most people don’t suspect what is placed directly under their noses.”

Historia filed this bit of information away for future use. As the tunnels tapered around them, forcing them to walk in single file, and as the muffled, overhead sounds of battle shifted to ring clearer ahead of them, she mused, 

“The Titans have been attacking the Palace for a while now without finding me, thanks to Levi’s tip. Shouldn’t it be about time for them to begin searching elsewhere?”

The dirt walls around them were now so close that if Dot held his torch above himself, its flames licked and sputtered on the cold rock ceiling over them. Any time now, they would arrive at the exit.

“Perhaps Your Majesty isn’t the Titans’ only target.”

Historia grumbled. The entire future of the Marian was hanging by a thread. She was in no mood to mull over Dot Pixis’ riddles; much less to humour his blasted Socratic method of instruction.

She told him as much. Insisted on it, in fact, but the old man was incorrigible, refusing to answer and humming ( _ humming! _ ) to himself while Historia grit her teeth and churned his remark in her head as she stomped behind him.

She thought as they walked, and thought some more until the tunnel ended at a short flight of rough, unused steps that rose up to a dead-end, solid wall. Pixis climbed the steps until the light he bore illuminated a seam in the stone - narrow, rectangular, and door-like.

“Here were are.” He turned away from his queen to feel the wall for the opening mechanism.

“Wait,” Historia blurted out. Pixis’ searching fingers stilled. He took a half step to turn, sideways, to his queen. 

“Dot,” she said, overwhelmed by the sudden sense that before that door opened, before she stepped through it, she had to understand Pixis’ little hint. “Did Levi say who ordered my assassination?”

The advisor tilted his head, face folding into relaxed, aged creases. Where Historia trembled with urgency, Dot Pixis stood leisurely, as if there wasn’t a war raging on the other side of the door; as if the queen - his queen - wouldn’t step out into the sunshine in another minute to see her Palace gone up in smoke.

“Nile Dawk did.”

“But my assassination would destabilize Maria. That would halt trade negotiations.” Historia’s brows came together.

Nile Dawk shouldn’t want that. He, like every other Sinian politician, was interested in the continuation of trade negotiations with Maria - specifically, of being the one to close favourable trade deals with it since its queen rolled out her new, exclusively nationalistic policy.

So what would Nile Dawk have to gain from her death? He didn’t finance the Titans; Grisha Jaeger did. And Grisha Jaeger was another man who stood to gain from Marian trade concessions. For that reason, at least, he should be interested in preventing Historia’s death and the resulting destabilization of government, which could very likely result in shutdowns of infrastructures, including ports. 

But…

“But Grisha Jaeger is dead,” Historia mused aloud, eyes narrowed to slits against the force of her thoughts. “Nile Dawk may have residual authority over them, but those Titans are more violent mercenaries than actual terrorists. They will act only when they are paid. With Grisha Jaeger dead,  _ who is paying them _ ?”

“His successor, of course,” Dot said like this was the most natural thing in the world. “I believe her name is Hitch Dreyse. The late Grisha’s right-hand and foster daughter of sorts.”

Historia had not heard of this character before. “And what do we know of Hitch Dreyse?”

Dot Pixis shrugged. “That she is admirably loyal, for one. That Grisha Jaeger trusted her to carry on his life’s work in the event of his untimely demise, for another.”

“And did she honour his wishes?” the queen prompted.

“Oh, yes. Quite eager to posthumously fulfill Grisha’s dreams, I hear.”

_ Grisha Jaeger is dead, _ whirred round and round on repeat in Historia’s mind, fringed by an idea she was barely grasping. So what if Grisha Jaeger is dead? His instructions were still being carried out, weren’t they? So what did it matter? Grisha Jaeger had to be marked for death. Prominent people usually were. Terroristic, prominent people usually were. Marked for death. By their own allies, sometimes. By -

_ Grisha Jaeger is dead. A few nights ago, Levi called to say they’d asked Nile Dawk to do it, and the little shit was only too eager to do his former patron off. _

_ Grisha Jaeger is dead. In all probability, it was Nile Dawk who killed him. _

And it finally clicked. Historia sucked in an epiphanic gasp. Eyes widened; shone blue in the dancing light. Dot Pixis’ creased visage rearranged itself into a professor’s satisfied triumph. 

“They had a fallout,” she breathed. Previously wild thoughts were sinking into their rightful places. “Nile Dawk and Grisha Jaeger and the Titans, and none of them know it. The Titans take orders from Nile Dawk thinking he and Grisha are still acting together. Grisha’s given up on Nile Dawk, and no longer cares about the fate of the Titans. He was ready to be done with them both -”

“- but he died first.”

Historia’s head snapped up to Dot Pixis, who inclined his head with a smile.

“The Titans were getting to be a liability in the face of the passage of the Aid Law, which Nile Dawk, and therefore Grisha Jaeger, could not prevent. But if there’s one thing we know about Grisha, it’s that he likes to milk his investments for all they’re worth.”

“So he was going to let the Titans be destroyed by the joint forces of Maria and Sina,” Historia tentatively put in to Dot’s encouraging nods, “but not before he got one last, huge use out of them.”

“Ah.” Dot Pixis’ affirmative sigh was long and approving. “I believe Your Majesty can guess Grisha Jaeger’s last project.”

She could. Now she could. Grisha Jaeger was no stranger to dirty takeovers. An aggressive businessman, he earned a reputation for cutthroat tactics that pushed the bounds of legality. What he couldn’t get by sweet talk, he was known to take by force.

Grisha couldn’t get Maria’s ports to open for him through the sugared mouths of retained politicians like Nile Dawk, not even with the looming spectre of violence from the hand of the Titans. So if his business history was anything to go by, Grisha Jaeger was expected to take and to break open those ports by force.

“He’s ordered the Titans to destroy the ports.” And her conclusion startled even Historia herself. She sought Dot Pixis’ face and received a solemn nod in turn. 

It made perfect sense, counter-intuitive though it was, and was a move that simultaneously distanced Grisha Jaeger from the Titans - for who would suspect him of destroying the ports that his own businesses relied upon? - and crippled Maria. 

A crippled Maria was a desperate Maria - one opened up and made vulnerable to outside influences. Specifically, the Sinian influence Grisha Jaeger expected to wield were it not for his unexpected murder.

Nile Dawk’s order for a royal assassination was just a happpy coincidence that would serve as smoke screen for the real show.

A cold shot of urgency suddenly washed over Historia. Dot Pixis returned to the wall. Under his practised hands, the ancient mechanisms unlocked, and the stone gave way to shafts of dusty sunlight dappling the dirt floor, which remained unchanged since the shed was built several hundred years ago. 

The queen stepped out of the tunnels. All around her, soil-encrusted tools stood clumped together in a corner while in another slumped several sacks of fertiliser. The facade of a garden shed was kept up to a fault.

Just outside the only window in the room, the labyrinthine mouth of the rose gardens yawned. Beyond it, over tufts of woolly foliage, stood the Royal Palace, outlined in soot against a backdrop of fire and smoke. The choppers of the Royal Guard hovered uselessly above it, obviously too afraid to mount a full offensive for fear of irreparably wrecking what had been touted as the jewel of the Reiss royal estates.

A jewel slowly being ravaged by the Titans, who were leaving not much beyond an empty shell.

Something curdled in Historia’s blood.

“Dot.”

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

It wasn’t worth it. 

“Would it be fair to assume that the Titans’ forces are halved between the Palace and the ports?” 

The ports, both air and sea, were situated side-by-side, both across the capital city of Trost, and built along its extensive coastline.

“Yes, I would believe so.”

“Then half of the Titans are here while the other half are en route to the international ports?”

“Quite possibly.”

The queen nodded. Out here, above ground, communication was simple. There was no need for the fussy radio equipment they had to rely on in the rock chambers several meters underground. Out here, Queen Historia was quite conveniently able to pull out her cell phone and dial the Commander of her Royal Guard, who answered at once.

“Ymir.” Nerves hardened into steel as she gazed upon the slate rooftops - her last, long look at the palace that was her hitherto unknown family’s pride and joy. The jewel of the Reiss. The birthplace and the home of the father and brothers and sisters she never knew.

_ Their _ home, not hers.

White noise whispered in Ymir’s patient silence. 

Historia swallowed.

“Abandon the Royal Palace.”

Her voice was strong. She felt strong; unwavering. 

“Order the militia to proceed to the international ports and secure them against imminent attack. The Royal Guards will stay to sniff out and destroy all Titans on the property. Spare no force. Shell the palace if you must.”

On the other end, Ymir choked. 

“And -” Historia weighed her last command. Then she shook off all doubt and pushed forward. “- see to the immediate release of aid from Sina. Contact their Ministers of Finance and Defense directly. Do what you must. We can no longer wait for Levi.”

Ymir murmured an affirmative. The line clicked off. Outside the window, fresh plumes of smoke rose from the wreckage of the palace. The chopper of the Royal guard banked off to the side. In a little while, Historia knew to expect the thudding tremors, this time from aboveground.

This time, she was not afraid.

Dot Pixis had not said a word. His face was unreadable. 

But that was the least of her concerns.

She had already gone this far. People would simply have to understand the necessity of sacrifice. In return, the least she could do would be to build her own great dynasty from their foundations.


	25. Chapter 25

Justice Minister Flagon Turrett had heard enough about the legendary Ambassador’s Room to hope that he would be asked to meet Levi Ackerman there. So he was understandably put out by the cordial invitation to the Embassy for an informal conference with Maria’s sour-tempered, sharp-tongued prodigy.

He had also heard enough of your reputed prowess to be doubly disappointed when you met him only to shut him into a blasted conference room with Levi and, he was not surprised, Erwin Smith. 

“Double-teamed by the boy geniuses of Maria and Sina.” He dragged out an upholstered chair and dropped himself onto it. “Must be my lucky day.”

Neither man cared for his turn of phrase. Erwin gave him a withering look while Levi scowled his disgust.

Flagon propped his chin on the back of a hand, the elbow of which he casually planted onto the shining table. “My turn to be called to the principal’s office,” he drawled in a tone that bordered on mocking. “Let me guess. You want that pretty lass out there -” jabbing a thumb in the direction of the conference room doors through which he had just entered and you, left, “and, by association, the Marian Embassy, to avoid charges for bribery and espionage.” 

A knowing grin stretched across his face. “Sure. I could do something about that. But I don’t buy your rape accusations.  _ Everyone _ knows what that girl gets up to after hours - I might even venture to say,  _ during _ office hours.”

“Claps for you,” Levi deadpanned. “We don’t need you for our rape accusations.”

“But you’re scared of being investigated for bribery and espionage?” Flagon’s single eyebrow - the left one - drew deep, arched wrinkles on his forehead.

“You said you’d do something about it?” Erwin, with an edge to his tone.

Flagon spread his hands. “What’s in it for me?”

“That’s what everyone wants to know. Of course.”

“Busting Maria’s sex lobbying ring might be the highlight of my entire career. I think it’s fair to receive something in exchange for giving it up.”

Erwin shrugged. “Do you need me to put in a good word for you somewhere?”

“Why?” Flagon snorted. “So you can learn my secrets and sell me out like you did Nile Dawk -  _ at his own Parliament _ ?” He shook his head. “You clever bastard. I don’t trust you even if you are my party mate.”

“Look at that, Erwin. All your lying and cheating has finally caught up with you.” Levi worked his jaw, his stare, deathly as ever, unwaveringly directed towards the Justice Minister. “Out with it, then. I’ll make you a deal if you don’t want to talk to him.” He tipped his head in Erwin’s direction.

Flagon slouched against his seat with a grin, slumping nearly all the way, as relaxed as can be. “For starters, I’d like to begin negotiations with that lady you’re trying to save warming my lap.” He patted said lap, grin salacious.

“No,” Erwin growled before Levi could even open his mouth. “That is out of the question.”

“I’m dealing with Ackerman here, not you.”

Levi tsk’ed. “Big, fat fucking no on this end, too. Go to a whorehouse if you have an itch to scratch.”

“What for?” Flagon laughed, kicking one foot up to rest an ankle on the other knee, “When I can just borrow yours?”

Levi flew out of his chair. Flagon’s seat slammed into wall behind him from the impact. In spite of it, he was still grinning, still snarky, smothered though he was into the backrest of his seat, Levi’s arm crushing his throat.

“You’re not advancing your case,” he choked, baring his teeth in defiance of his strangulation. His face twitched, the lower eyelid of his right eye spasming to meet its upper neighbour.

Levi dug in deeper. This wretched lech had no right to insult you. He did not deserve to see you; to even  _ think _ of you.

“Levi,” Erwin interrupted before the other could kill the Minister and tear into the corpse, “we have pressing matters to discuss. Surely you can carry on later.”

Levi shoved Flagon into the upholstery one last time and let go. 

The Minister coughed for air. “I was right, Erwin,” he stammered, rubbing his tender flesh, “you suck as a party mate.”

“I wouldn’t if you comported yourself decently.”

Levi glared at him all the way back to his own chair. “That woman is off limits.”

Flagon slid up straighter and barked a couple of laughs. He rubbed his throat, unable to look long at Levi, who was all tensed muscle like he would spring forward again, this time for a real kill, at the slightest provocation. Erwin was no better, frighteningly stoic with legs crossed and hands thrumming on his armrests.

“You couple of bastards,” the Justice Minister croaked. “Can’t take a joke anymore? What’s wrong with wanting to have a go at what everybody else already tried? And fucking  _ liked _ ?”

Erwin’s fingers tightened around the steel frame of his seat. 

“Or is it that you want `er all to yourselves? You greedy fucks don’t like sheathing your dicks where someone else has cummed before?” 

Levi was halfway to a retort when a commotion on the other side of the door halted further discussion. All three men paused to listen to the unintelligible voices. 

Levi reached over and jabbed at an intercom button on the table in front of him.

“Yes, Mr. Ackerman?” Your voice buzzed into the conference room.

“What’s going on in there?”

“Prime Minister Dawk, sir,” you replied with a nonchalant calmness that put the osmose voices of your rattled colleagues to shame. “He came up with Reiner Braun, a cooler between them. His Excellency refuses to submit to routine security inspection. Kirschtein is treating it as a bomb threat.”

The gaze that slid to Flagon flickered wicked amusement. “Feed us the visuals. Take care of the situation.”

“Understood, sir.” The intercom crackled into silence. Levi crossed the room and switched on the mounted television. While he was flipping channels in search of the live-link feed, Flagon boomed in disbelief,

“You’re going to let a woman handle a bomb threat? By herself?”

“Why the hell not? She’s my Chief of Staff. She’s got more guts than you have balls.” Levi found the channel and returned to his seat. “Watch. Nile Dawk came just in time.”

\---

“Don’t touch me! Don’t you know who I am!”

A small crowd of security personnel had gathered at the Embassy lobby. Rifles drawn, they converged in a semi-circle around Nile Dawk and Reiner Braun and the ridiculous plastic cooler the Prime Minister kept under his arm.

“Sir, all visitors must submit to the Embassy’s security procedures.” 

Jean was in the middle of the action, talking to Nile Dawk and his cooler like he was negotiating with a hostage taker. Amongst all the security personnel, he was the only one who had not yet drawn his gun. His right arm clearly itched to, though.

“Put the box through the x-ray machine and walk through the metal detector. Or turn around and go the -” he bit back a cuss “-go home.”

“You can’t do this to me!” Nile’s shouting was audible from where you stood just around the corner from the lobby. A nervous supervisor whispered if she ought to begin evacuating people.

“Go to the back rooms,” you murmured back. “Hide in the security offices.” You gave her what you hoped was a reassuring smile. “It will be all right.”

You could guess the contents of Nile Dawk’s precious cooler. You wanted witnesses to it, but letting the staff stick around a supposed bomb threat smacked too obviously of foreknowledge. It was more reasonable to send them away to hide. Anyway, they could see exactly what kind of explosive Nile Dawk had from the security room monitors in the back, far enough away from the lobby and close enough to the emergency exits to be a logical hideout.

“I am the Prime Minister of Sina and I demand to be allowed entry!”

You strode into the lobby between security personnel poised to shoot. Jean inched in front of you.

“Your Excellency.”

Nile’s face brightened. His cooler hitched up one hip. Firearm muzzles swayed with the motion. “There you are! I brought you a present! Let me in so I can show you.” He winked as if to indicate a little secret between the two of you. “Isn’t this what you said you always wanted?” 

He shook the cooler. It rattled with a stark hollowness. 

You raised placating hands. “Please don’t do that, Excellency.” Indicating the semicircle of firearms, “It unsettles these gentlemen.”

Nile Dawk laughed, head thrown back, and repeated the action just to be funny. Reiner looked on helplessly. “You think I want to blow up your precious Embassy?”

“Put the damn box down!” Jean yelled.

Protocol dictated that if Nile continued to make taunts, security could immediately disable and disarm him and could confiscate suspicious items. Jean had already been sufficiently patient.

You could stand for Nile Dawk being disabled and disarmed, but it would not do for Jean to confiscate his gift before it was revealed to the public.

“Your Excellency,” you coaxed, “it won’t take a minute. Please subject yourselves and your parcels to security checks. There’s no need to make a huge fuss. I’m sure it’s nothing -”

Nile took the bait.

“You know it’s nothing!” He roared. “I’m the Prime Minister of Sina! What do I stand to gain from blowing up your puny little Embassy? And if I really wanted to, I wouldn’t deliver the damn bomb myself!” 

He lifted the cooler over his head and hurled it to the floor. 

People shrieked. Somebody opened fire. Security shot back. The glass wall of the lobby shattered, raining crystals into the fray. Security charged, sending Nile and Reiner to the floor. Jean pounced on the Prime Minister, both of them shouting, Jean wrestling Nile onto his stomach and dredging his face into the crunching glass as he cuffed the man’s hands behind his back.

When the commotion had more or less cleared, you found yourself crouched down, shielded by the bulletproof vest of Hannes, who had the presence of mind to yank you to the floor for cover when the bullets began flying. The floor glistened with glass, ice, and blood. Reiner Braun lay supine, his shoulder a mangled mess. Nile Dawk was still sprawled face down. Both he and Jean, who had a knee to the Prime Minister’s back, were catching their breaths.

The cooler that caused it all lay upended and broken open by their feet. Dry ice, still smoking, spilled red across the cream tile floor. A ways away, battered and kicked about in the confusion, Grisha Jaeger’s darkening, frosty head rolled to a stop on its occipital end, dead eyes and slack jaw staring straight into the security camera.

It was impossible not to see.

With a howl, the Prime Minister of Sina raised his head and repeatedly bashed his face into a pulpy mess on the floor.

\---

Flagon Turrett recoiled. Levi allowed the feed to keep streaming, amusing himself with his guest’s reaction to Grisha Jaeger’s icy head. Erwin was no better, calmly watching the proceedings and looking like he would enjoy a drink while he was at it.

“What the fuck is wrong with you people!” Flagon wheezed, shooting up and out of his seat.

“What’s that? I thought you’d gotten used to seeing dead bodies during your stint as State Prosecutor?”

The man’s nostrils flared. His face scrunched up.

Erwin was the spitting image of nonchalance. That was it. Let Flagon see that he and Levi could make quick work of Sina’s most powerful man. Flagon would conclude for himself that they could give him the same treatment in much less time and with much less fracas.

“See?” Levi blinked away from the television as you rose from the rubble to command order back into the Embassy, “I told you she could handle it.” His eyes pierced Flagon’s as he spoke. “The woman you want to treat like a cheap whore? She’s the reason Nile put Grisha Jaeger’s head in that picnic basket.” 

The Justice Minister stared in horror.

“You want to have a go at her? I’ll warn you now: that’s how Nile-fucking-Dawk drove himself mad.”

Flagon Turrett sank back to his seat. Everything about him trembled. Even the damp fringe flopping over his forehead shuddered.

“Are you ready to talk?”

He shook his head. It was more like a shiver. “ You’re crazy. Batshit insane. All of you!”

Erwin smiled blandly. “We simply protect our own. Now that we’ve talked about what you can do for us, maybe you’d like to say what you want us to do for you?”

Flagon dug the heels of his palms into his eyes with a wail. The skin of his throat, still red from Levi’s stranglehold, vibrated with the cry.

“Just leave me the fuck alone.”

“That’s a nice change of tune,” Levi sneered. Erwin gave him a disapproving look. To Flagon,

“Tonight, at the Eldian, there will be a room ready for you and for any number of people you might choose to bring. Everything has already been paid for - free-flowing drinks and all the women you could want to order. That should make us even, I trust?”

Justice Minister Turrett just wanted to get out of this madhouse, preferably alive and in one piece. As it was, he could not even gather the nerve to squeak.

\---

Justice Minister Turrett and Majority Party Leader Smith had to leave through the emergency exits. You and Levi saw them off.

Flagon disappeared first, never happier than to clatter down to the sane lower levels. The remaining three of you watched his dark blond head wink out in the spiral of staircases.

“That’s one taken care of,” you murmured, rubbing the cold steel railing as you peered into the concrete dimness below. Your voice echoed up and down the narrow vertical chamber.

“And two down,” Erwin said. “Shame I owe Hoover a favour.”

“ _ I _ don’t,” Levi deadpanned.

Erwin laughed but never tore his eyes from the concrete nautilus of steps. Crooking a hand over the inside of his elbow, you leaned against his arm as you peered into the grayness with him and whispered just loud enough for the three of you,

“I’m going to make you Prime Minister.”

\---

He had to. He couldn’t resist.

After leaving the Embassy, Erwin dropped by the station where Nile was being held pending assessment of his mental state. The police chief in charge took one look at him and pointed to the holding cells with a warning,

“If you ask me, Mr. Smith, the P.M.’s off his rocker.”

Erwin nodded his thanks anyway and followed a deputy down a dimly-lit hallway lined with metal-grilled partitions.

“We try to keep it dark,” the deputy explained. “It helps calm even the most violent of them.” He nodded towards a cell at the end of the row. “For your own safety, sir, I can’t let you in with him. But you can talk to Mr. Dawk through the bars.” He snickered as he said ‘talk’.

Erwin strode down the short corridor, found Nile’s cell, and called back to his escort, “Think I can have a private word with His Excellency?” The honorific just sounded ridiculous now.

The deputy hesitated, figured Erwin must know what he was doing and could be trusted to be responsible for himself, and finally shrugged. “You need anything, just holler!” Quick footsteps receded, then the door separating the detention cells from the rest of the station clanged shut.

Nile looked sullen, sitting at the edge of his cot, staring into nothingness, hands hanging between his knees. Erwin stood directly in front of the cell.

“Are you proud of what you’ve done?” His voice, deep with authority, seeped into every little crack in the old walls and sank like talons into the reaches of Nile Dawk’s imagination. “Grisha Jaeger was to be arraigned and tried at the end of this week. Everyone will be looking for him now.”

Nile simpered incoherently. In a flicker of lucidity, he realised that Grisha Jaeger’s body must have been found now. That an anonymous, ephemeral band of mountain bandits were going to take the blame. That Erwin Smith was bullshitting him.

But just vaguely. 

Vaguely because the bright blue eyes that charmed the populace were now unrelentingly focused on him, and he could feel their laser stare dig into his skull. Reluctantly, Nile Dawk lifted his head.

Hands in pockets, Erwin calmly leaned against the opposite wall, head slightly tilted back against it as he gauged Nile. As he accused him with his stare.

Nile’s limbs itched to twitch.

“You were the one who killed Grisha, weren’t you? Showing off your trophy like that.”

Nile’s bug-eyed stare flickered. As it settled into the emptiness before Erwin, the latter’s head rippled into Grisha’s which, in the first stages of defrosting, softened into squishy, fleshy likeness. Nile could visually trace the furrows and the trenches of weary death, the limp skin of waxen jowls, the sinking, shaded eye sockets with their half-open grey lids, the unkempt beard and matted hair.

He whimpered a strangled scream.

Here was a former human, came the unbidden thought. Here was someone he once knew, once spoke to, once visited in his home. Here was someone who used to treat him like a lackey, who dangled him on the strings of ambition and threatened to strangle him with them when it suited him…

“Wasn’t he your dearest sponsor, Nile?”

His chin trembled with unshed words. 

“He wasn’t very nice, was he? Of course, he didn’t treat you half as well as he should have.”

Here was someone he’d be glad to see dead.

“Still. Did he have to die like that? Such a violent death and at your hands, too?” 

The narrator in his head sounded so very much like Erwin Smith. Nile knew he should never trust him, but the man was so very right. This man whose accusatory tone grated in his ears, whose judgment clawed at his mind and whose every word beat at him.

“Was it satisfying to watch him die? Did it feel good to chop him up? Behead him like he was nothing more than cattle for slaughter?”

It was good. But was it  _ wrong _ ? 

Nile’s eyes twisted shut. 

Dear god, it wasn’t wrong. It  _ couldn’t _ be wrong.

He dragged a hand over his hair, fisted it, and tugged the strands in time to his groans. 

It couldn’t be wrong because he did it for a higher purpose. He did it for  _ you _ . You, who were everything good and holy. You, that deadly vision. That hypnotic voice and bewitching body in that goddamn dress. You spoke words of enlightenment when you told him to. Asked him to and egged him on. 

He killed Grisha Jaeger for something greater than himself -

“You snuffed him out in his prime, Nile. What was the texture of his life as it drained from your hands? Did you stop to savour it as you mutilated him? Did Grisha cry for help, only to go unheard? Did that make you feel powerful? Did you think you had won when you held his severed head up for all the world to see?”

He didn’t mean for the world to see. Grisha’s head was for you and only for you. 

And it  _ was _ satisfying. He deserved it. After all he’d done to him. To you. To all of you.

The words wouldn't come. As Nile curled into himself like an injured worm, his words, and the remainder of his sanity, evaporated in a vibrating wail that made his shoulders tremble and the sweaty hair plastered against his forehead, quake.

“They’ll be coming for you now.” Erwin’s voice dropped to a murmur. “Your elite police forces. They’ll be sniffing you out and hunting you down. They’ll follow the trail here, and they will find Grisha Jaeger’s head with you. Look -”

The vision was watery, but it played out for Nile exactly as Erwin narrated. He watched the head, atop the pressed suit on the other side of his cell, move its liquid lips to speak.

_ \- He’s watching you. He will always be watching you. His eyes didn’t close. You didn’t even let him rest properly. Didn’t give him a chance to - _

He would kill him again. Kill him until his voice stopped taunting him. Chop him to oblivion so he could no longer watch his every move. He would kill Grisha Jaeger and tear him into stardust until even his memory lost the will to live.

Nile screamed, his body at once running hot lava and freezing ice. He dashed to the bars, expression torn open, rattling metal and slamming himself onto them, rearing his head up and smashing it between the rails with wide-open eyes - mad, red-webbed, glazed over eyes. Sweat, blood, and spit sprayed from his contorted face. Arms thrust out from the cell as he screeched and scrabbled for Erwin.

“I’ll kill you again! You deserved it, you fucking cunt! I’ll tear you apart!”

His suit, ridden with bullet holes and stiff with suspicious stains, reeked. Erwin pushed himself off the wall.

Nile’s meltdown had summoned the deputy, who came running in, keys jangling. When he saw Erwin unscathed, he sighed in relief.

“Told you. P.M.’s far gone.”

Erwin tried to look sad. “Thank you, anyway.” 

He remembered your screams, your pleas for mercy and cries of pain, all at the hands of this man making a spectacle of himself on his prison floor, and finally felt the satisfaction of cold vindication.

The fucking cunt deserved it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stairwell scene inspired by the adage: behind every great man is a great woman. And lots of multiqueen mv's.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ladies take matters into their own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously, Nile Dawk outed himself and stirred his brains. And should probably pay for Embassy repairs.

It was sundown when the last trickle of people, investigators and all, finally left the Embassy. Even Jean was wrapping up and leaving the rest to the night shifters.

You sank onto the receptionist’s chair, looked out at the wreckage that was the lobby, and sighed. Footsteps approached from the direction of the Consular Offices, stopped beside you, and said,

“Finance is going to love us this year.”

Eren. Reminding you that once again, you were going to have to pull another overnighter, this time to go over budget with Levi for _this round_ of repair expenses. The thought made your head throb. 

“Let’s scrape off the remains of that damn glass wall and be done with it. Who cares if the elevators open directly into the reception counter? Isn’t that the point of a reception counter?”

“Levi cares,” Eren replied, thick with an effort to lighten the mood. Nodding at the steel sign spelling out _“Embassy of the Kingdom of Maria”,_ “He’d hate it if we were mistaken for an edgy modern art gallery.”

You had to snicker. “Why haven’t you gone home yet, Eren?” 

When the cops came crawling, you and Levi shut the offices down for the day and sent everyone home except for you, himself, and a few department heads. The staff had jumped at the chance, filing out of the emergency exit in wobbly clusters of whispering uncertainty while you supervised the cops working out front.

Now you sat in the post-processed lobby, which still sported flakes of glass and glossy spots of rusty brown.

“I wanted to ask you something,” Eren admitted, the remnants of a smashed vase crunching under his feet as he shuffled from foot to foot.

“Couldn’t it wait until we got back to the House?”

Behind your back, Eren shook his head. Judging by the state of the office, he knew that for the next couple of days, you’d be going home only to bathe and sleep. His question couldn’t wait that long. It nagged. Ate away at him. He would have no peace until it was answered.

“Nile Dawk said something,” he began. “He said he brought - Grisha Jaeger’s -” Eren choked on the name “- _head_ as a gift for you. And that it was something - something you said you wanted.”

Your seat inched back on its wheels. Eren gripped the backrest. You stared resolutely forward, forearms braced on the edge of the desk, their wood spearing into your skin.

“Is it true?”

The words were but a whisper.

“Yes,” you replied. Stiffly. Tightly. This conversation made your hands restless. Out of Eren’s sight, they drummed over the desk, found the cool, blunt edge of a letter opener, and scratched at it until it crawled towards you. “I was glad to be gifted Grisha Jaeger’s life. We are in the middle of a war against him and his Titans. I daresay I _hoped_ he would die soon.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Eren’s voice grew strained. 

The letter opener twirled under your hand, flashing silver as it spun like a compass needle gone haywire. Your finger hovered nearby, ready to flick it back into a frenzy at the slightest sign of lagging.

“Then make yourself clear.” 

Your chair jerked suddenly. Your arm swept over the desk. The letter opener skittered across the surface, smacked against the high edge of the reception counter, and ricocheted towards you, still whirring. A hand slammed down over it, catching it in time. The pointed end peeked out just inches from your chest.

Eren Jaeger loomed over you, one arm inches from your face, hand resting on the backrest of your displaced chair, and another on the desk, palm flat over the knife-like shape of the letter opener. 

“Did you know that _my father_ was going to die _today_ , _in that manner_ , and that Nile Dawk was going to bring his severed head here, _this morning_?”

You raised your eyes and fixed him with a level stare. His face was stormy. Everything about him was dark as he towered over you, the shadows of the overhead lights falling over his hanging hair, his pressed and twisted mouth.

“So he’s your father now? The last time we spoke, you were over eager to distance yourself from him.”

His entire being was shrouded with anguish. He rattled the back of your seat. “Tell me the truth. Were you in any way involved in my father’s death? Did you kill another person?” He looked on the verge of a scalding, tearful meltdown.

You glanced down at the point of the letter opener under his white-nailed palm. Unconcernedly, as if you were picking free a stubborn staple wire from a sheaf of papers, you plucked Eren’s finger’s aside and, inch by inch, released the steel implement from his crushing custody.

“Yes. So what?”

The blade slithered out of Eren’s palm and onto yours. You twirled the dull blade, then curled your fingers around it so it stuck straight up out of your fist. 

“Your father was a terrorist. He hurt people. He killed people. And he would have gone on killing them for his own selfish ends. _He would have gone on killing the very same people you claim to want to protect_!”

Eren gulped.

“We’re in the middle of a _war_. And in a war, there’s no space to debate the morality of killing. We’re not classical Russian literatis,” you spat. “In _this_ war, Grisha Jaeger’s death was necessary. So I ordered it. I ordered _the Prime Minister of Sina_ to bring me _your father’s head_ because I could. I damn well enjoyed it and will not discuss the virtue of my amusement with you.”

You rose, drawing yourself to your full height. It wasn’t much compared to Eren, and realistically speaking, you really weren’t all that threatening. You were facing off against a grown man, bigger and stronger than you were by any standard. A meagre letter open wasn’t going to be enough to incapacitate him.

Still, you had caught him off guard. He faltered, and actually staggered back when you stalked forward in a cacophony of clicking heels and pulverized debris.

“Nobody gives a rat’s ass whose father Grisha Jaeger was. He had to die. Now he’s dead and _you_ have to pick sides.” Eren backed himself into a wall, everything about him blown up and out in horrified fascination. “Are you going to be Grisha’s heir, or Eren Jaeger?”

His mouth worked in silence.

“Think hard. Choose wisely. But for old times’ sake, I’m telling you now that if you plan to follow in your father’s footsteps - if you so much as dream of going up against Levi, of _hurting_ Erwin - _I’ll kill you myself._ ”

The faraway sounds of activity of the evening security were loud in the dank silence of the offices. Though the events of that morning were unlikely to be repeated tonight, Jean had decided to err on the side of caution and increased the evening detail. You could hear the men moving to their posts. Soon, the one tasked to patrol the front offices would arrive.

“I’m going to count to three, Eren,” your voice dropped to a murmur. “Decide by then.”

Anything could happen between then and the count of three. Eren could lash out in a fit of panic. Or he could decide that he would rather avenge his father and attempt to seriously harm you. 

But security was on the way. 

You decided it was a worthy gamble.

“One…”

Eren’s eyes were wild. Unnerved and unfocused. Your nails, and the imprint of the flat curve of the letter opener’s dull blade, dug into your skin.

“Two…”

His chest heaved. The thumping of heavy boots fell closer and closer. Eren heard it too, his head tilting ever so slightly in the direction of the sound. You held your breath, body tensed for anything and everything.

“Three.”

You were not sufficiently prepared.

A body slammed against yours, throwing you into the side of the reception counter. Arms clamped down and around you, immobilising you and crushing you to a taller, broader body. You struggled, and it was when you tried to push free that you heard the quiet plea by your ear.

“I’m with you. With Levi and with Maria and her allies.” Eren’s words, shaky with nerves, puffed against your neck. “I’m going to let go.” His grip loosened even as he spoke. You found your footing. “Please, don’t…”  
  


_Don’t do anything stupid?_

_Don’t try to kill me?_

Reluctantly, his arms fell away and he stepped back just as the night guard arrived. The newcomer lifted a hand to his cap. 

“Just starting my patrol, Miss. Everything a’right?”

You looked his way without seeing him, more occupied with tracking Eren’s movements from the corner of your eye. But the kid only hung his head and stared at his shoes. 

“Clean-up crew hasn’t had the chance to tidy up so there’s still quite the mess.” You waved in the general direction of the wreckage. “Be careful. I’ll leave this to you. Mr. Jaeger and I will be in the back offices with the Ambassador.”

Groping behind yourself, you felt the wood of the desk and quietly discarded your makeshift weapon. The guard saluted again and took up his post. You beckoned for Eren to move into the interior Embassy offices. He shuffled along with you behind him.

“Straight into Levi’s office,” you murmured once you were out of earshot and were winding your way around desks and glass-walled hallways. “Tell him what you told me in Marco’s room. And tell him _everything_ Grisha Jaeger told you.”

\---

The only indications of Levi’s surprise were the raised eyebrow and the teacup frozen halfway up his mouth. Hange and Mike, who were both also supposed to be at that evening meeting with him, interrupted themselves to swivel around at your entry.

“Good news or bad?”

“Good,” you replied, feeling looser-limbed now that Eren was in the midst of people who could easily restrain him should the need arise. “Or so he says.”

You nodded for the boy to take the spare seat on the other side of Levi’s desk. He fidgeted, scanned the curious faces of his superiors, and stiffly made his way over. You shut Levi’s office door and slid onto the arm of the sofa beside Hange. She patted your knee.

“He give you any trouble?”

Behind his desk, Levi looked every bit the Ambassador, imposing and oozing no-nonsense authority. He raked an askance look over Eren, who went rigid in his seat.

Your mouth twitched. “No trouble at all.”

Levi made a disbelieving noise but did not push the matter. Leaning forward, chin planted on an elbow, “You look constipated, Jaeger.”

Eren choked, and his bug-eyed stare finally flew towards Levi’s expressionless ones. “S-Sir?”

“I said you look constipated,” Levi repeated, slowing his words to a crawl and rolling his eyes at Eren like the latter was broken in the head. “You’re holding on to your chair like you expect to shit bricks.” Nodding in your direction, “She threaten you or something?”

The poor boy fell over his attempt at words.

“I did,” you admitted, blowing out a huge breath. “But you’re terrifying him more.”

“Maybe because you were threatening him with a fucking paperclip.”

“I object! I was armed with a letter opener!”

Levi snorted. A corner of his mouth actually turned up into a sardonic smile. You found yourself grinning with him over the rim of his teacup, which he managed to sip at this time.

“So, Jaeger,” Levi said after another beat, while Eren thought to relax. The boy popped back into attention, jumping in his seat like a boxless, oversized, jack-in-the-box. “What’s your good news?”

Eren threw you a pleading look. You nodded pointedly. Turning his attention to his silent superiors, he gulped.

Then it tumbled out, every last detail exactly as he related it to you between a shared bottle of tequila. He talked about receiving a call from an unknown number, finding out that it had been someone from maximum security passing on Grisha’s request to see him - his Eren, his only son.

“‘One last time’, the warden said,” and Eren shook his head. “He said it like everyone knew he was going to die.”

Everyone knew who _he_ was. In the space of a few minutes, Eren had relegated Grisha Jaeger into an impersonal ‘ _he_ ’, neither speaking his name nor referring to him as father.

It was with that affected distance that he narrated the sob story of the man’s life, his pursuit of wealth and happiness, and his reminder of Eren’s heirship. The last part was told hesitatingly, punctuated with furtive, uncertain glances at you. But you kept your peace, letting him talk uninterrupted just as your colleagues did. 

Between this wall of silence on one side and Levi’s drilling presence on the other, Eren finished confessing to his audience of immobile, impassive faces.

“He said if anything happened to him, I was to go and see somebody called Hitch Dreyse,” he concluded. “Said she knows everything. Guess she’s also expected to...sort all of this out.”

Then he sagged in his seat, deflated with the last of his tale, limbs slackening with the loss of raging tension.

Levi, Mike, and Hange exchanged looks. Hange pressed her lips together and nodded, prompting Levi to sit back with a quiet exhalation. 

“I’ll be straight with you, Jaeger,” he said, “in the spirit of fairness and camaraderie and all that shit.” Linked fingers hovered above his midsection, elbows parked on the arms of his chair. “Everybody knew Grisha Jaeger was going to die. Hell, I bet the bastard expected it himself. That’s why he asked to see you - one last time.”

Eren’s head whipped between Levi and the rest of you, confused dread etched across his face. “What do you mean _everybody_ knew? _He_ was scheduled to stand trial at the end of the week! _He_ wasn’t expected to die in custody -”

Levi lifted his chin. Mockingly. Challengingly.

Eren’s breath whistled between his teeth. He glared at Hange, switched to Levi, and then to Mike, before finally settling on you. His confusion raged like a puttering old car, squished angry noises hopping in laboured notes from his chest.

“I already told you,” you said, “Grisha Jaeger needed to die. You don’t have to act all shocked again.”

“But you - you _planned_ -”

“Of course we did. Nile Dawk didn’t and look where he is now.”

“You only told me that you ordered Nile Dawk to kill him! Now you’re saying _you’re the architect_ of somebody’s _death_?” Eren’s question reverberated. He was hunched over, fists on knees, head bowed to his chest.

“All in a day’s work.”

Eren buried his face into his hands and screamed into the void behind his eyes.

“Are you going to change your mind?”

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. _How could he know?_ He shook his head and his shoulders, and the rest of his body shook with them. He had an inkling, of course. But the thought refused to be reconciled with his ideals of upright, honourable, diplomatic work - everything that he had come to internalise as his waking truths.

“Now that you know what Embassies really are -”

 _Spy centres cast in a veneer of pretentious sophistication,_ Levi once described his precious Mission while sunk in a bout of disillusionment. _They were never intended for honest purposes. Politics cannot run on honesty. And Embassies are political extensions. Since the dawn of time, they were eyes and ears and traitors and killers tolerated by their foreign hosts._

“- are you going to leave us to avenge your father?”

Eren gritted his teeth. His eyes hurt from being screwed so tightly. He rubbed them with the heels of his hands, forced them open, and glared down at his fists, at his knees and at the dark carpet of Levi’s office. Out of the corner of his sight, he caught the flash of the tiny diplomatic badge pinned to his suit lapel. 

The rush of unspeakable pride that welled in him drowned out everything else.

His tongue flicked out. Wet his lips. 

He couldn’t possibly…

It was unfathomable.

“No,” he whispered. “I’m not going to change my mind.” He’d come to terms with it. He had to, because the filth of politics in diplomatic work could not compare to the sins of his father. 

“I don’t want to be like him.” He lifted his head. “I don’t want to be like my father.”

Levi nodded. Sat up straight. “Then the only question left is: what are you going to do with your inheritance?”

Eren blinked hard. “Give it up, I guess?”

“No,” you interrupted. Everyone turned to you. “I think Eren should accept his inheritance.”

“Oh?” Levi gestured for you to continue. Eren looked around, confused.

“Parliament is about to declare Nile Dawk insane and call for the election of a new Prime Minister. Erwin stands a very good chance at being elected. But he’s young and may be overshadowed by more seasoned opponents - opponents who are not as closely allied with us.” 

Beside you, Hange softly hummed her agreement. Buoyed by this approval, you fixed Eren with your most intense stare 

“You can accept Grisha’s assets and turn over everything to Erwin in trust, to be used exclusively for the benefit of Sina. Indirectly, it will give him major economic, and therefore, political, clout. It will be his war chest and will make him stand out during the elections. If you agree and my prediction turns out to be right, the new Prime Minister himself will be our closest ally.”

Levi’s look bored holes in you. You refused to acknowledge it.

Eren didn’t think for very long. The excited chatter making the rounds in the room was encouragement enough for him.

“I’ll do it.”

\---

Pretty and clever, but not cunning. Grisha often said that of his pet, his dear Hitch, who preferred to spend her free time lounging on velvet seats, admiring the glitter of her diamonds under crystal chandeliers.

She was better off the mistress of a rich man with money to spare for her expensive habits, Grisha also often said. Every time Hitch heard that, she would roll her eyes, toss her head of platinum curls, and disdainfully wonder why on earth she should want to live with an old pervert when her daddy loved her enough and was wealthier than any withering oligarch, anyway.

Grisha loved that. For a man who swore he would have no other child than the boy he had with his wife, he treated Hitch like a true daughter, like his successor, spoiling her silly and calling her his precious princess. Hitch was his closest confidante, the only person he trusted with his life and all its secrets. 

And Hitch, who before Grisha was a child thrown away by the world, repaid him in full measure.

She forged for him a bloody path wherever he desired to tread. Hitch worshipped Grisha, and the men he gave her - all manner of thugs and assassins and their shady, underworld cohorts - cowered at the sound of her name. 

Every single one of them internalised the story of Ilse Lagnar, the traitor hidden amongst them, who Miss Hitch set free and hunted dead for entertainment at her coming of age celebration.

Nobody dared disobey her after that.

And nobody dared to cross Miss Hitch now, when the news of her adoptive father’s grisly death flooded the news outlets. 

Her screaming rages began a little before midnight, when the first reports appeared on the internet. She stormed out of her room, locked herself in Grisha’s den, and wailed. The entire household waited, frozen.

Over an hour later, she summoned her favourite hitman. They conferred. The man left with a grim expression on his face. Miss Hitch had found out who was responsible, and she was sparing no expense to give full vent to her grudge.

\---

Reiner woke up groggy in his hospital bed, remembering only bleeding out and forcing himself to come to terms with the state of his limbs, as if the charred skin and shredded mess of bone and tissue did not belong to him.

For a moment he wondered whether the Embassy posted armed guards by his door, then thought better of it. It didn’t matter because he was not going anywhere. He could barely sit up without feeling like he was going to drop straight down, and he was hooked to multiple machines anyway.

The television was off. He thought he could feel his immobile left arm - sincerely hoped it was still there - and wished he could at least turn on the news so he could find out Nile’s, and by extension, his, fate.

While he was thus in the throes of restlessness, the door to his room opened. Two nurses, a man and a woman, came in with a tray of blood vials between them.

“Mr. Braun?” the male nurse murmured, voice unidentifiable through the surgical mask over his mouth. He set down his collection of body fluids on a nearby table, snapped on gloves, and tore out a fresh syringe.

“Routine CBC,” his female companion explained. Reiner turned to her. She was on the other side of his bed, checking his drips. The sides of her eyes crinkled as she paused to smile down at him. Reiner thought she had the most beautiful grey eyes. Her small, elvish face was crowned by a halo of platinum curls.

“You’re on sepsis watch,” she said, reaching up. Her scrubs rose with her arms, revealing a sliver of skin and the edge of her black panties. “That was a nasty number on your shoulder.”

Searing heat suddenly raced down Reiner’s good arm. He jerked reflexively, but the male nurse forced him down. Reiner whipped his head around. The man was glaring at him, the blue eyes over the surgical mask like twin shards of ice.

Panic gripped him. Reiner turned again, this time to see the female nurse empty the contents of her own syringe into his dextrose drip. Moments later, hot fire blazed all over his body. Reiner thrashed. The woman, surprisingly strong for someone so waif-like, climbed atop of him, straddling his thighs and shoving him down while her companion clamped a hand over Reiner’s nose and mouth, smothering him into grunting silence.

Agonizing heat ignited a path through Reiner’s veins straight to his heart. Already, he couldn’t breathe and his skin was growing cold. Cold and sweat-slick. He tried to speak, tried to call for help, but his throat seized up at the attempt and, to his horror, he began to choke.

The woman leaned forward until she was practically laying over his convulsing body. Reiner thought he brushed against a hard, steel object tucked against her stomach. 

It took him a dizzy moment to realise that he felt a handgun, and that the black band under her scrubs was not panties, as he foolishly thought, but the straps of a holster.

His thrashing turned into seizures. The weight on his shoulders relaxed. Already, his body was growing sluggish. His eyes slid shut. As hard as he willed them to, they refused to open. Light and darkness flashed behind his eyes - bursts of brightness like lightning, accompanied by sharp, ultra clear snippets of the world around him, followed by a sweeping night.

Then the periods of light came fewer and farther between and stayed for shorter and shorter times. Just before he was eternally overtaken by darkness, Reiner heard the female nurse say from somewhere far away,

“Did Grisha struggle so hard when you cut off his head?”

Still he tried to protest. Tried to work it into the world through sandbag lips. _Nile Dawk did it. I just watched._

But pain struck anew through his chest, and then he was nothing.

Hitch clambered off the huge lug. When she drove the last syringe into his heart, he jerked so hard she was nearly thrown off, before crumpling back onto the bed, a bear tranquilized forever.

“That was unnecessary.”

“I know,” she replied, retrieving syringe from flesh and tugging Reiner’s hospital gown over the miniscule wound, smoothing it and patting it down. “But it was satisfying. Now I’m sure he’s really dead.”

“A vial of the stuff I shot into him was enough,” the man, dressed in nurse’s scrubs, said. He checked the place for any accidental evidence trail, grabbed his prop tray of blood, and looked at his mistress expectantly.

“You can’t always be too sure, you know.” Hitch sized Reiner up. “Anyway, more of the stuff sped things up and made it fun. Now I know what it’s like to get on a bucking bronco!”

Her partner sighed. “We have to get going.”

Shrugging put-out assent, Hitch rapped Reiner’s slack chin with a gloved knuckle one last time. “Rest in peace, big boy. Say hello to my daddy for me when you see him.”

Then she bounced out with her favourite hitman, both she and he morphing once more into a pair of nurses. They talked idly through their masks, she tittering about how much fun that was, about how she learned so much she was so glad she decided to come help out after all.

In their wake, Reiner Braun slept on until the nurses of the next shift found him dead in his bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *classical Russian literatis - looking at you, Dostoevsky and your Crime and Punishment and Demons. And you too, Pasternak, low-key.
> 
> *Embassies as spy centres - i used to also romanticize embassies (and still do, as evidenced by this fic). then one year we got a moot court problem where the embassy of a fictional country was caught engaging in espionage. in the course of researching arguments in favour of the fictional spy country, i came upon this academic paper describing the unspoken, open secret rule that embassies are really information-gathering centers, some legitimate, some objectionable, through clandestine espionage. in other words, legit spy centers. I cannot remember the citation of that paper now (i blew through stacks of them during research and that was four...five years ago?) but that author's conclusion really stuck with me. guess i'm glad to have finally been able to use it in a creative writting project.


	27. Chapter 27

Long after the meeting ended, after everybody but you and Levi had gone home and the only lights on in the Embassy were the hallway ones turning glass walls into prisms, you and he stood together in the darkness of his office, coats on, ready to leave.

“I can drop you off,” Levi offered.

Neither of you moved behind his closed door. Neither of you even attempted to reach for it.

“You’d have to travel halfway across the city,” you replied, smiling at him in the dark. Reaching forward, finding the steel of the door handle, pushing it open. “It’s all right. Subway’s still open. I can find my way back.”

Yellow orange hallway light spilled in. You stepped out, carpet to tile, Levi behind you.

“On second thought, I’ll catch the train, too. I’m only two stops from here.”

His door clicked shut. “You have a meeting first thing in the morning. And you have to drive to the venue because it’s your chauffeur's day off and you won’t let me take his place.” In the gentle, lonely lightness of deserted cubicles, you offered him a grateful look. “Drive home. Save yourself the trouble tomorrow.”

You began walking. His footsteps were quiet just a little behind you.

“I can come here for the car before my meeting,” he insisted, now falling into step, now intentionally crowding you in the relatively narrow corridor. 

His persistence was endearing.

“That won’t do. You have a long drive and an early meeting. You need to get going before the subway even opens.” When you glanced at him, his brows were knit in deep thought; mouth pressed into a thin line. “It’s fine, Levi. I’m a big girl. I can get back to the House by myself.”

Just as you were about to round the corner to the front offices, when you were just shy of the wrecked reception and the dented elevator bays beyond, Levi caught you by the elbow. You half turned. 

“It’s dark and I’ve kept you out so late. At least let me walk you to the station.” The depth of everything he wanted to say but did not was scrawled clear across his face. 

You found yourself relenting.

“Okay.”

Neither of you spoke on the way down and across the building’s dim front lobby, but the instant you were out the door and a frigid nighttime wind whipped you both in the face, Levi grabbed your arm and held you by his side, as if afraid you’d blow away in the gale.

“About Jaeger’s inheritance,” he said when you began to walk, speaking in a voice so low you nearly mistook it for the wind, “are you sure about what you want to do?”

The wind was wicked and whistling. You hugged yourself against it. “It’s best for everyone. If Eren doesn’t step up to claim it - even anonymously, out of the public eye - Maria and Sina will tussle for control over it. It’s a formidable politico-economic resource.” You frowned. “The last thing Maria and Sina needs is something new to fight about.”

“And Erwin?”

“I trust Erwin.” You nuzzled into your light coat, adequate when you got dressed this morning but suddenly rendered useless by the treacherous weather, “And I know he can more than hold his own.”

Levi snorted. “I’m not worried about that bastard. It’ll take plenty to topple him. I’m worried about you.” The hold around your arm tightened. “When he becomes Prime Minister, it’ll be harder for the two of you to be together.”

You’d thought of that. Run the idea so many times you could already practically see the public outcry over a Prime Minister playing house with a foreigner - and a scandal-ridden foreign diplomat at that.

You understood it; accepted it, even though Erwin’s romantic, heroic declarations about public proclamations of his adoration made you wish you could, even if only for a moment, forget.

“I know, Levi.”

The subway station loomed before you. Levi led you both in for shelter. Inside, all around you was nocturnal quiet broken only by the sporadic activity of a convenience store holding out until the last trains departed, and the bright signboards pointing the way to the multitude of platforms. 

“And you’re all right with that?” Instead of letting go, he held you at arm’s length. “He makes you happy, doesn’t he?”

Incredibly happy. Incandescently happy.

You bit your lip and stared at the dark grout between the floor tiles, refusing to look at Levi while he shook you, gently, mimicking rousing you from somnolent ignorance.

“Do you understand that when Erwin becomes Prime Minister, one of you may have to give the other up?” He tried to catch your gaze, but you refused to desist from your examination of the floor. “Do you understand that if you help Erwin become Prime Minister, you may be helping yourself away from him?”

It was so quiet, but there was nobody around to overhear. 

The day had dragged on too long. You were tired. You nodded in surrender.

“Do you  _ really _ understand?”

“ _ Yes _ .” This time, you squeezed your eyes shut and your fists with it. “But it has to be done. Some things are bigger than us. Some things deserve all of our mundane little dreams.” 

You swallowed past the lump building in your throat and were finally able to look up to return the intensity of Levi’s stare. “Erwin and Queen Historia together will mend the relationship between Maria and Sina. Wouldn’t that be the perfect example of good, working, diplomacy?”

Levi’s expression twisted into something inscrutable. His hands dropped to his sides. When you tried to smile reassuringly, it came out watery. Even your next words refused to be heard above a whisper,

“Besides, I believe in Erwin. I believe he is meant for greatness, and I want to do what I can to get him there.” You sucked in a long, freezing breath that iced your nose and nearly stole away your voice. “This is how I love him, Levi. The rest, I’ll figure out.”

Your eyes were overbright. He had never seen you this way before. Never witnessed you so full of real purpose; of personal conviction.

The station PA system announced the last departing trains. You stared at him still, wishing him to understand. Willing him to understand this one single thing.

He sighed. “All right. If that’s what you want, I’ll help you.”

\---

By daybreak, media was awash with news of Reiner Braun’s murder. The new outlets played and replayed nothing but the blurry, blue-tinted CCTV footage of two unidentified nurses strolling into Reiner Braun’s hospital room and strolling out again a mere ten minutes later.

Just enough time to collect blood; to do justice to the blood sample tray one of the malefactors carried.

Also enough time, apparently, to murder the mad Prime Minister’s right hand.

Levi paused the video. The assassins were brazen enough to walk around in only scrubs and surgical masks. He pointed out the smaller one, obviously a woman, with luxurious platinum blond curls.

“That’s Hitch Dreyse.” He glanced at Eren, who intently studied the figure frozen mid-stride. “You can google her picture. Just takes a bit of digging.” He pressed another button and a publicity photo of Hitch Dreyse alongside the late Grisha Jaeger at a charity function popped up over the CCTV footage. “Make sure you recognize her at first glance.”

Eren nodded. 

“Know your lines?” Levi prompted him. “Remember your goal?”

Another nod. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. get going.”

Eren rose from his seat. You were all clustered together in Levi’s office once more - you, him, Eren, Hange, and Mike. The boy nodded at you. He looked nervous. So were you, to be honest. Bristling and nervous. You realised you’d never fully trust Eren until he successfully carried out this mission.

“Go on ahead. I’ll be waiting at the rendezvous.”

“Right,” he said. Tightly. He swallowed. Took a breath and stiffly let himself out of Levi’s office. The door whispered closed behind him. In a little while, you, too, would have to leave. But at the moment…

The display blanked out. Levi had switched off the television.

“You didn’t have to watch it so many times,” you murmured. “I know you hate pointless deaths.”

To your surprise, he scoffed. “Who said that was pointless? I’m glad somebody stepped up to do our dirty work.”

You weren’t so sure. “It was unnecessary. When we put Nile Dawk away, we also put Reiner Braun away.”

Levi snorted. “Don’t be naive.” And out of the corner of your eye, you saw Hange nod a tiny nod. “Nile’s gone apeshit. And he’ll stay that way forever. But it’s not the case for Braun. He’s crippled, but he can still run his mouth can’t he? Who’s to say he won’t bargain to be a whistleblower in the future?”

Oh. Right. You hadn’t even considered that. 

“Why?” Levi shot you a look. “Did you want to keep Braun alive?”

_ Do you want to spare all other persons similarly situated as Reiner Braun? _

Would he actually let you? At what expense?

You quashed the fluttering wicker of guilt inside and gathered yourself - all that was left of yourself - and felt that you were drawing yourself up taller. Straighter. Hardier.

You shook your head.

“No.” It wasn’t worth it. People like Reiner Braun and Nile Dawk weren’t worth it. “I’m glad he’s gone. And I’ll be glad to see all the others taken care of, too.”

The last of the misgivings spluttered and died. This time, you knew you meant it.

\---

While the world busied itself with Reiner Braun’s death, Hitch Dreyse reluctantly received Eren Jaeger into his father’s home.

He’d come for his inheritance, he said. He’d known to come find her on his late father’s instructions when he went to visit Grisha in prison before he died.

“Killed,” Hitch snapped. The only Grisha left in Eren was the boy’s brown hair. Everything else was an unfamiliar face on an unfamiliar figure that Hitch instantly disliked. “Grisha didn’t just die. He was  _ killed _ . Don’t you read the news?”

Eren shrugged. “Of course. Whatever you say.”

She shot him the nastiest look she could muster. If she didn’t trust Eren, nobody else in the household would. So as far as everyone in Grisha Jaeger’s house was concerned, this Eren Jaeger, this  _ boy _ they had been exhorted to expect every day of their service, was a stranger.

A stranger who now legally, rightfully, owned everything that used to belong to their master.

That truth was the most bitter of them all. Hitch spun on her heel, leaving Eren Jaeger to scramble after her to Grisha’s public, for-legitimate-business office where she suffered him to sit in the man’s leather throne. 

It didn’t suit him. The boy’s seafoam gaze was much too wide, too bewildered. And he did not have his father’s presence. If Grisha’s chair came to life, it would swallow Eren whole, inadequacy and all. 

The thought brought little consolation to Hitch.

Eren was her brother, Grisha often told her. She had to take care of him as a sibling. But as it was, he did not even evoke in her the urge to squeeze into the great armchair with him, as she had done so many times with Grisha.

Sighing through her nose, she came around the desk, stood before him, and planted a hand atop the laptop by them. “Listen.” In honour of Grisha’s final, sacred instructions, she had to speak to Eren. But she didn’t have to look at him, so she didn’t. “If you really want to take over your father’s businesses, you should move in.”

“I will, eventually,” he replied a little too quickly. “But there’s paperwork to be done for that and it’s a mess. You’d think it’s easy to resign. But not from government. And certainly not from foreign service.” His attempt at a friendly grin was lost on Hitch.

“Maybe we should leave these papers until after then,” she said, wary, hand still unmoving from the closed laptop. 

Eren frowned.

“It’s just that there’s so much and it’s all so complicated! It’ll take forever. It’s easier done in chunks, constantly, after you’re moved in.”

That made him chuckle, which in turn had Hitch gawping at the deep, knowing sound of it.

“No worries. I can keep up.”

Seemed there was more Grisha left in Eren than she initially thought.

He grasped her slight wrist, moved her hand aside, opened the laptop, and powered it up. “I understand if you don’t want to reveal all these well-guarded secrets to a stranger who waltzed through your door only this morning, but I am not just any stranger.”

Seafoam eyes, when fixed on one, sank deep and intensely.

“I am the late Grisha Jaeger’s son. I am his heir. His successor. The reason he built his empire.” The screen glared between them, prompting for a password. Without tearing his eyes from Hitch’s grey ones, he tilted his head in its direction. “I own Sina now. I am the one who commands you now.”

Maybe there was plenty of Grisha left in Eren, after all.

A handful of hours later, Eren slumped into your agreed neighbourhood coffee shop rendezvous, arms laden with a couple of cardboard file boxes. You led him to the car, where he collapsed into the front seat, let the boxes drop between his feet, and tilted his head back with a sigh.

“He really owned Sina.”

You handed him a styrofoam cup of steaming macchiato and eyed the boxes. “Is that everything?” To be honest, you thought you ought to expect something more than two blue filing boxes.

He sipped at the sweet, hot drink with a contented noise. “ _ Those _ contain just an index of his holdings and his laptop. But I think it’s enough to get us started.” The coffee restored his spirit somewhat and he grinned, mouth curving against the bitten rim of his cup. “Now we know every bit there is to know about Grisha Jaeger’s properties.”

“Good.” You patted his shoulder, turned on the engine, and put the car to drive. “Sit tight. Hange and Eld have been expecting this.”

Later that day, Parliament announced its plans for an election to fill the vacancy of the Prime Ministerial seat, at the same time information undeniably linking Grisha Jaeger to the Titans began circulating in the news. 

Hitch Dreyse, once so elusive, was driven to public protestations of Grisha Jaeger’s implied guilt. She calling for a stop to the rumors, threatening legal action, challenging investigations, and demanding respect for the memory of Sina’s most eminent man, who died sans trial and who therefore died innocent.

By evening, M.P. Smith’s camp was pushing for a crackdown on ill-gotten Jaeger assets, with the intention of returning the lot to Sinian hands. 

In the absence of any heir, Maria was expected to escheat the Jaeger estate. But despite M.P. Smith’s inflammatory platform, every bit indicating a Sinian contest for it, the Marian Embassy kept its peace.

Parliament was quick to warm to M.P. Smith’s agenda. After the bleed out expected from the Anti-Titan Aid, any source of funds was most welcome. It particularly tickled Parliament’s dark amusement to think that they would be shelling out money to extinguish the Titans only to replenish their stores with the wealth of the Titans’ own patron.

Then, in the heat building up to elections, when the Jaeger assets were all everyone could think of, relationship with Maria be damned, the Embassy released a letter received from Grisha Jaeger’s unnamed heir. The anonymous successor believed in M.P. Smith’s platform and would support his efforts. Under Smith’s direction, the Embassy was requested to cooperate with Parliament to see to the restoration of all that was taken from Sina and its people. 

Eren’s phone rang endlessly. His mail overflowed with pleading messages, threatening messages, and messages promising revenge.

Everything was ignored.

And one fine day, not long after Prime Minister Dawk’s public descent into madness, the Sinian Parliament elected M.P. Erwin Smith as the youngest Prime Minister to ever serve it.

\---

Bertholdt Hoover was a fine mess of a man. 

Today was the day he was supposed to explain himself before his fellow Parliamentarians and he could not give them even the most vaguely acceptable excuse for his on-camera behaviour. 

He knew that any attempt to defend himself would forever ruin his already broken credibility. He also knew that divulging the context behind his first - and last, he swore to himself - sex video, was ruinous. 

Bertholdt Hoover was young and relatively inexperienced, and maybe even a little bit of a pushover, but he was not as dumb as his colleagues probably imagined him to be. He knew he had one thing in common with Grisha Jaeger, Nile Dawk, and Reiner Braun: they all gravely offended  _ that woman _ . And now three of the four of them were dead.

Bertholdt hoped it was not yet too late to save himself from sharing their fate.

So he stood under Erwin Smith’s parliamentary throne, faced his would-be interlocutors, acknowledged the charges against him, and declared that he would not put up any contest. He had taken enough of Parliament’s time and was going to resign so his fellow M.P.’s could focus on more pressing matters.

His declaration met with impassive quiet. The session was televised, and not a single Parliamentarian uttered a word. Not a single one of the public observers ranged against one side of the Hall uttered a sound.

Mixed agony and relief churned in Bertholdt’s chest. 

They couldn’t get their hands on any of the others, so they would rather crucify him. But now that he’d chosen to resign, they were at least willing to let him slink uneventfully into obscurity.

From high above him, Erwin Smith’s voice cracked much too loudly into the cooperative silence. “Parliament accepts your resignation, Mr. Hoover. Thank you for your service.”

That was his cue to leave. 

His whole body was stiff. He couldn’t bring himself to nod; much less to look up at the new Prime Minister, who may, on the principle of a favour owed, be a friend; but who may also, conversely, on the principle of an unforgivable affront, be an enemy. 

He managed to walk off the speaker’s podium and back to his seat, the rest of Parliament coming to life behind him and closing over his wake. As he crossed the hall, the voices of men and women broke forth, all speaking over his head, all competing to prattle on about the day’s abridged agenda.

In one short speech, in one fell swoop, Bertholdt Hoover was forgotten. He was good as gone.

\---

Nick had planned to show up at the Royal Palace. Its storming was supposed to be his moment of glory, conceived all those years ago when the enthusiasm of his preaching went unheard by the young queen Historia and her fledgling administration.

He had hoped to guide her, and was certain that it would only be a matter of time before his staunchly democratic, pro-people message reached the ears of the monarch who, for most of her life, was a member of the masses herself.

But then Historia chose to listen to Pixis, and the more Nick preached, the less certain he became of getting through to her. His dreams of advisorship - maybe even regency, in her absence - faded with every new edict, every appearance Dot Pixis made at her side. Then one day, he woke up to find that he had been branded an insurgent, and had become the kingdom’s most wanted man.

That was the moment Nick’s eyes cleared. Historia would never listen to him. She had been irreparably corrupted by Pixis’ influence. 

As a holy man - a preacher, harbinger of humanity’s good - and a newly-minted insurgent, Nick decided that the only thing left to be done was to save the people from their misguided Queen. 

That very day, Grisha Jaeger called him with an offer of partnership. Nick saw it as an act of divine providence - and a sign of divine approval. He rounded up his followers and, armed with funds, foot soldiers, and a morale bountiful enough for everybody with plenty to spare, let his Titans loose into Maria.

To his credit (and in his mind), he never lost a battle. He had certainly had setbacks, but even the greatest saints did. Nick never let them dampen his cheerfulness as he went about his holy work, carrying out his end of the bargain as fairly and as competently as he could. He also endeavoured to be as thrifty as possible, and lined his pockets with his savings. Above all, in between the myriad little tasks of his busy days, he paused to lift his hands in prayer for all the lives that had to be sacrificed for the betterment of Maria. He blessed their souls, and the souls that would inevitably join them in the future, and bade them rest in peace.

Yes, Pastor Nick was quite content with his work. After all, in several uplifting speeches, he publicly declared to his followers that he, too, was willing to die for the cause. He was ready to give up his life, so he never had cause for fear.

Until now. 

Now, Her Majesty Queen Historia had finally heard him - heard enough of him - and suddenly Pastor Nick realised that he was very much afraid.

Since becoming a wanted man, he had moved out of his apartments on the church grounds, leaving the preservation of the lot to the diligence and generosity of his congregation, to take up residence with the poorest of the poor. 

Hidden behind the facade and reputation of an ancient merchant building crumbling to its end in a shady, excessively populated part of town, Pastor Nick lived as comfortably as possible while directing the operations of his Titans from this secure base. It helped immensely that this base also contained a built-in cellar-cum-bomb shelter, which he camouflaged from curious eyes, and whence he conducted his business calls to Sina on a telephone line borrowed without the knowledge of his neighbours.

Now he huddled under the trap door to his hideout as shouts and footfalls thundered all around his neighbourhood, cursing the extent of Historia’s attention. It had all been going so well, his plan for getting rid of her as Nile Dawk had asked, until Historia caught wind of his plots against her life and disappeared. 

The shouting and thumping - and heaven forbid, was that barking? - were drawing closer and closer now, the sounds of merciless searches seeping in from his neighbours’ thin walls - walls he used to damn those nights his Sinian correspondence sniggered over the obvious noises of copulation from his end.

He blessed those same walls now as they allowed him to overhear his neighbours’ hushed conversations; let him make out their confusion and deduce from them that in his fellow apartment-dwellers’ ignorance about his presence, they invited Historia’s forces to sweep through their hovels in search of this alleged rogue bomber.

Nick scurried down another step deeper into his cellar. Then another. And yet another, wincing when one of the boards creaked. He fumbled in the dark, irrationally afraid that if he turned on the light, the boots swarming around his safehouse would feel the shift in electric currents and discover him.

He reached the last step. Was scuttling towards the landline in the corner when the rapping moved from his neighbour’s front door to his own. He had, of course, taken the precaution of switching off all the lights and boarding up his windows like everyone in their street did. But if those thugs broke down the door, the luxuriously appointed living room that greeted them would undoubtedly give him away.

The other end of the landline rang in symphony with the rapping, which was punctuated here and there by the orchestral boom of “Open up!”

A fervent litany spilled from Nick’s lips.

The landline clicked. His driver picked up. He hissed for joy.

“We’re leaving now -” A splintering smash vibrated above his head. Instinctively, he ducked, hunching deeper into his shoulders. “- Wait for me at the middle of the twelfth. I’ll be out in five.” Then he slammed the receiver down, snipped the phone line, and dashed out the cellar exit. Just as his back door clicked shut, his front one blew open, admitting a spill of Marian militia onto the antique rug in his front parlour.

Nick was already running, headed to the middle of the twelfth alley from his home, in the easterly direction. He had to be there in five minutes.

He sprinted, stumbling helter-skelter until his breath rolled acerbic and he was gasping, ducking, swerving, and weaving through the mess of Marian slums.

He ran, legs flying underneath him, arms careening like pinwheels shoving and catching and propelling him further, faster. 

He ran, because if he made it, he just might get to live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *escheat - when a person dies without heirs (either heirs under the law or under a will), his country "inherits" the deceased's estate (dead person's properties) after payment of any debts he left behind.
> 
> in the context of this story, eren is exepcted to inherit grisha's estate. but if eren doesn't come forward to identify himself as heir and to claim his inheritance and grisha isn't known to have any other identifiable heirs, maria is expected to escheat grisha's estate.
> 
> but because grisha's businesses and properties make up a huge chunk of sina's businesses, sina would understandably be iffy about another country having so much control over its commerce and industry. so in order to ensure that sina retains control over grisha's properties, it would have to figure out a way to confiscate them. erwin's method is to play up grisha's titans connections and use that as an excuse to declare his properties as ill-gotten wealth. that way, sina may legitimately take steps to recover it.
> 
> the implication here (especially in the marian embassy's silence over erwin's declaration to grab jaeger properties that maria may legally escheat) is that erwin has already been informed of reader's plan to let him use the jaeger assets to boost his candidacy, and all three of them - levi, reader, and erwin - are issuing public statements that make them seem to be at odds with each other to throw suspicion off their *otherwise very obvious* alliance/conspiracy.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ymir carries out her orders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: non-con/dubcon ahead

Midnight found you wandering along the unmarked perimeter of the House lawn in your office clothes. It had been another long day, this time listening in on Mike and Eren and their local legal team’s progress meetings on the Jaeger estate settlement, while trying to negotiate Aid release timelines with Levi. 

The weariness was bone-deep. Vaguely, you wondered how much longer all of this was going to go on for, and whether you would be allowed a moment’s reprieve between the ending of this crisis and the beginning of another. 

“I take it the Ministers of Finance and Defence were right bitches about Aid?”

You froze. Tried to look over your shoulder and were instantly stopped by a gloved finger poking into your cheek. The smell of tanned hide cut straight through your senses. 

“Who I am is insignificant.” The voice was purring. A woman’s, definitely, albeit with an unusually deep inflection that made her sound perpetually teasing. It was an unsettlingly calming voice, so soothing that it lured you to forget that you were out of earshot from the House and its occupants, in the dead of the night, with an anonymous stranger.

“I’ve come with your orders.”

Narrowing your eyes, you pushed your face against the finger, which sank deeper into your skin. “From whom?”

You heard a shrug in the voice. “Higher-ups.”

“I only take orders from identified superiors. And it’s after business hours. I’m off duty.”

The lone finger was joined by a thumb, which traced down and along your jaw, grazed your chin, and unfurled into a hand around your neck that stroked at your jugulars. “Believe me, you’re always on call for _this_ superior.”

Ah. “Direct orders from the Queen, then?” you hazarded a guess.

The hand around your throat tightened. “You really should just put those smarts to better use.”

You breathed deeply, savouring it while you could. “I suppose I’m not allowed to refuse?”

Again, that grinning tone. “You suppose right.”

“Suppose I do anyway?”

The pulses under your jaw beat wild against the pads of the woman’s fingers. She knew it. She felt it. “There really isn’t any point in making this harder for both of us,” she breathed, and as you felt the warm gust of it rustle over your hair, the skin on the back of your neck prickled, “Now. We’ve wasted enough time. You need to carry out your orders tonight so the money and troops can be on their way to Maria in the morning.”

The implication of the nature of those orders left you cold.

“They might as well be,” you retorted tightly. “Levi and I were arranging that this afternoon.”

“That won’t do. Maria needed aid yesterday.” The woman snickered, “Besides, you and Golden Boy are much too late. Notice that Finance and Defense hemmed and hawed when you tried to talk to them today? They already struck a pretty sweet deal with Maria.”

With a gasp, you tore forward, whirling away with just enough abruptness to catch your captor off guard. In that fleeting moment of freedom, you caught a glimpse of a dark, slender silhouette - brunette, was all you could gather.

“What deal?” you were beginning to demand when the woman flew towards you. Before you could even complete your thought, pain exploded in your chest. Your knees buckled. Grass prickled, and that was the last thing you knew before everything winked into blackness.

\---

The first thing you registered upon awakening was the dull, throbbing ache in your chest. The next thing you felt - because it was pitch-black all around - were the coarse bindings around your wrists tugging them up over your head, affixed to what seemed like the handles on the inside of a car. 

Hauling yourself up, you slumped against a cushion rammed into the empty space between the small of your back and the inside door of the car.

It was but a small bit of consideration, but you would take what you could.

At the very least, you were still clothed, you noted with relief, curling your stockinged feet against the icy blast of the air conditioner. If you stretched your legs all the way, the tips of your toes just brushed the plastic and upholstery of the opposite door.

The car thumped. Rocked. You started. If you strained your senses, you thought you could catch the tail end of a conversation outside. Moments later, a rolling whoosh scraped along the space across you and a beam of light shone into your eyes.

You winced away. Bent your legs protectively up.

“...awwww, I thought I’d be nutting in the Royal limo.”

“Insult Her Majesty and I’ll tear out your tongue.” Hissed. It was the woman. You cracked an eye open only to screw it shut again when the overbright beam swayed closer to your face. The car - van - rocked with a weight of a clambering body.

“Ho! Ho!” You imagined you’d heard that wet, choking voice at least once before. Thought you’d shaken the thick hand on your shin at some forgotten occasion a long time ago. 

The light faded behind your closed eyelids. You ventured a peek, straining to see through the spots before your eyes and managing to catch only the rotund silhouette of a man before he barked for the door to be closed. The rushing whoosh came again, followed by a dull bang, and the two of you were plunged together into darkness.

You didn’t dare twitch. 

“How nice those people are,” your companion heaved as he shuffled in the close quarters. He huffed perverse excitement. The leather of a slithering belt whispered. You shuddered. Coiled yourself tighter and away. An old fear, one you thought you’d long forgotten, spread icy from your gut. Your stomach roiled. The pressure of tears pulsed in the sockets of your skull.

“I asked them very nicely, and they delivered. Trussed up like a Christmas turkey.” 

Fabric popped. A zipper hummed. 

You swallowed back a whimper. Fingers gripped the car handle. Palms pinched into plastic.

“Fancy little ol’ me,” wool shuffled along skin, “coming in Levi’s spitfire.”

Hot hands grabbed your ankles and you cried out in surprise as you were dragged forward, almost flat on your back but for the wrist bindings holding you up. Something wet and inordinately warm slithered between your feet, thrusting in time to your companion’s grunts.

“Your name’s made the rounds in Parliament. When I sat beside you, I immediately saw why. It made me so happy -” He shoved forward with a laboured breath. The member he stroked against your feet was beginning to grow disgustingly moist.

You lifted your face to the roof of the car. Dry, airconditioned air invaded your mouth, parching the lips they passed.

You couldn’t remember him, and you couldn’t decide whether forgetfulness was distressing or relieving.

“Tell me.” This corpulent romeo persisted in his loquacity despite his shortness of breath. “Does Levi use you himself, or does he just whore you around for favours?” The grip on your ankles loosened to paw up your legs, diving straight up when they found the hem of your skirt.

You squirmed, trying to push him off. He chuckled, shoved your dress up to your waist, and stripped you of your underwear, panties, nylons and all, and cramming fumbling fingers between your legs.

You squealed through gritted teeth, bucking and kicking to dislodge the unwelcome touch. He snickered, holding you down by the hip and digging in deeper just to show you exactly what he thought of your efforts. Twisting fingers scraped against unwilling flesh.

You fought back a scream. It would be undignified. Your back arched down and away, but the blasted fingers chased your warmth, wriggling humiliatingly as your tilted hips locked them firmly inside you.

“Be a good girl and stay nice and tight like this for my cock, okay?” Moist breaths puffed up your jaw. He surged forward, smothering you with his weight. A shapeless nose nuzzled your chin. His mouth latched onto your throat. Nipping. Sucking. Licking. Sucking. Hard.

You finally cried out.

He was marking you. Using you like this was bad enough, but leaving evidence of it in such a place where it could easily be seen by the public - by Erwin, hissed the voice in the back of your mind - was rubbing salt to an open wound. 

Teeth sank into your neck. You thrashed. Your foot connected with his belly and you kicked hard. He grunted. A weight lifted off you, then you felt the sting of a backhanded slap. 

He sat back on his haunches. Jerked an arm across his face as if to scrub at his mouth. You could feel the spit drying just above your clavicle as you caught your breath and fought back a wave of panic.

“So frisky.” Tearing your thighs open, he wedged himself between them. You screamed. He’d shoved you right up against the side of the van. He was crushing you. The cushion under your back had fallen off during the fray. Through your dress, the cold glass of the windows threaded icy branches that sank into your lungs.

Sticky fingers squeezed your cheeks, digging into the hinges of your jaw until you gasped. He let go only when you warbled in pain. “Knees up. Spread your legs.”

Your chest heaved. Your shoulders and back ached with the effort of holding you up by the wrists. 

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You shut your eyes. It was no different. The darkness was the same. The dread ringing in your head was the same. Reluctantly, you inched your knees up. Let them fall away as you tucked your face into the crook between shoulder and upraised arm.

Faceless hands rubbed circles on the insides of your thighs, humming approval as rough skin travelled inwards, ghosting over scars and whittled down scabs. 

Gnawing the insides of your cheeks, you willed yourself to think of pleasant things. Violent things, even. Anything to keep from fixating on the sensation of those unwelcome appendages exploring you, of those thumbs moistening themselves with your body’s betrayal, breaching flesh, stroking up and then down, building you to an almost unbearable need.

“How many bigwigs got to touch you like this?” The anonymous body shuffled. Airconditioned air blew across your legs. You shivered, and muggy breath puffed between them, uncomfortably humid over your embarrassed discomfort. 

A mouth closed over your clit. You jerked. The heel of your foot connected against a soft shoulder. 

“Did you offer yourself up to Nile Dawk?” He chuckled into you. The remnants of a prickly beard, like sandpaper, scraped against your most sensitive skin. “Are you the reason he lost his mind?”

He breathed in, inhaling your shame and all its attendant mortification, pulling back a smidge before diving back in, rubbing his nose, the whole of his face, against your sex. “What about Erwin Smith?” His voice was muffled, and thick with your wetness. “Have you offered yourself up to His Excellency yet?”

He bit. You shrieked. Kicked. Scrabbled deeper into the dubious shelter of your corner of the van, on the very edge of the seats. He surged in your wake, catching up with surprising agility. Searching hands found their mark. You screamed and screamed, wriggling and wrestling to no avail. The mass of him forced your legs further apart. The weight of him bore down.

Sharp pain pierced between your legs. You choked on your sobs. All the old demons rattled their cages. Flew out from the recesses of your mind. You babbled for mercy. Gasped incoherently as you spiralled into visions of leather cracking against skin, of the sensation of being broken open, torn apart, and smashed to pieces. Of slipping in and out of conscious sanity. Of dribbling shame crumbling to ash and drifting in wafts of cigarette smoke.

“When you spoke so passionately in Parliament, I knew I had to have you.” With a snort, he drove forward so hard that your back slammed against the wall of the van. “You were so hot. Taking charge. But I like you like this, too.”

You were openly crying. One of his hands had found its way under your bra. 

It was humiliating. And after all you said to Erwin -

_I’m going to be brave. I’m not going to cry. They’re not going to beat me at my own game._

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing them to dam the onslaught of hiccuping tears. 

It burned. 

It burned now. 

But it also burned several times before. It burned and it hurt and you had had to crawl back with broken skin, bruised limbs, bitter tongue, sore jaw, sore pussy, burning ass -

And you never cried. Not until Nile Dawk did you ever cry.

And look where he was now.

Your lip lifted in a quiet growl. The tears were salty on your tongue. You were not going to sit back and take what this bumbling excuse for a man thought he could give. It was time to claim your due. From this man and from that brat of a queen herself.

“Wouldn’t you like a souvenir?”

“What?” the thrusting slowed. Stilled. Came to a halt. His fat fingers wavered in their grip behind your knees.

“Something to remember me by.” Your voice was sugary sweet. Breathlessly, raspingly saccharine. “I only offer this to my favourites.”

He sat back, bewildered. His penis slipped out. You took what little modesty you could and crossed your ankles.

“Personally, I like videos best. Something I can touch myself to when there’s no good cock around.” You dropped your voice to what you hoped was a sultry purr. “How about it? Care to indulge me? I’ll send you a copy.”

He swallowed audibly. “B-but my wife -”

You laughed. “You’re fucking the best pussy in Sina and you’re worried about your wife?”

His breaths spanned the thinking silence that settled over you. Then, “Okay. L-let me just grab my phone -”

“Where’s the fun in that?” You pouted for good measure, hoping the action translated into your tone, “Besides, I don’t get my copy, and that was the whole point. Let’s have someone film us, instead.”

He gurgled surprise.

“The woman who brought you here. She might as well render full service.”

“Ymir?”

So that was her name. “Yes. Ymir.” Feet finding the cushions of the seat, you dragged yourself to a proper seating position, legs folded to one side. “Open the window, sweet. I’ll ask her.”

His noises of excitement were blatantly swine-like. The van rocked under his scrabbling weight, then there was a soft mechanical buzz, and illumination from the moon and from distant floodlights revealed tufty locks twirled around a bald crown.

Bart Wald, Minister of Defence.

Of course. 

“Done?” Ymir’s voice floated in from outside. “That was quick.” She fought back a snigger.

“We’re not done,” came the indignant protest. Wald leaned aside, revealing you. “She wants to talk to you.”

Ymir’s brows shot up but she obliged, stalking towards the van and just peering in through the half open window. “I forgot to pack condoms, if that’s what you were going to ask.”

The urge to snark back was near impossible to resist. Forcing yourself to channel lewd promiscuity, “No problem. I prefer it messy anyway. And on tape. It’s more fun messy and on tape.”

Ymir cast you a suspicious look.

“Let a bitch add to her collection, why don’t you?” you wheedled, letting one foot creep across Wald’s lap to his waning erection under her gaze. The man’s nostrils flared with the force of his inhalation. “You don’t even have to watch. Just grab my phone, turn on the camera, and let it roll. You can sit in front and look away if you’re not into voyeurism.”

Her lip curled.

“Come on. I’m doing this on your say so. At least let me have my fun.” Your foot diligently rubbed Wald, who moaned and began rocking his hips.

That was the last staw. 

Ymir shot him the most disgusted look and nodded. “Fine. Just shut that fucking window.” A moment later, the front passenger’s seat door opened and shut, and the red eye of a recording video blinked above the flash of your phone. 

“Get on with it. This car reeks of sex.”

“Thank you,” you cooed back, all honeyed snark. Moving your foot under Wald’s weeping cock, you pushed it up, rolling it between his belly and the arch of your foot. “When did you say the troops were going to come to Maria, Minister Wald?”

“Immediately!” he gasped, moving to strain towards you were he not held back by his literal balls.

“Will you let me give the order?”

“Yes! Yes - just please let me -” His sex wept in time with his pleas. The poor man thrust against your foot, milking what insufficient stimulation you deigned to give.

“Gentleman’s honour?”

“Please -!”

A perverse satisfaction washed over you. “Oh, all right.” You released him, wriggled until you were reclining, and spread your legs. “Finish fucking me, then.”

He sobbed relief. His mass lumbered towards you.

He didn’t make it. The old pervert stiffened just as he was about to enter you, jerked into empty air, shivered violently, and came all over your thighs, the seats, and the floor. 

“Isn’t that a crying shame?” you clucked, sliding a leg up his concave side to his shoulder, where you kicked hard, sending him tumbling across the van. “Get out of my face. I haven’t cum yet. Call the next one in.”

Ymir stifled laughter. Still panting, Bart Wald fumbled to dress himself, managing only to tuck himself back into his trousers and to zip them up before he swept the van door open and fell out in his haste.

A second silhouette sidestepped him before coming into view. 

Relatively put together, down to the overpowering cologne that wafted into the van as he peered inside, unconcernedly scanning the mess of body fluids.

“Minister of Finance?” you guessed, making no attempt to close your legs. His eyes swept over you, lingering a while longer at the criss-crossing marks partly hidden behind the press of your calves, before flicking to the still-glaring light from your phone.

“Personal souvenir.” The tip of your tongue dragged over your lower lip. “You don’t mind, do you?”

He shrugged off his jacket, handed it to an unseen someone, clambered in, reached to flick on the interior light, and shut the door behind himself. You were beginning to form a kinder opinion of him as he leaned over to untie your bindings, when he unbuttoned your dress, divested you of the last of your clothing, and tossed them to the front seat (to Ymir’s muffled indignation). Then he sat back to study your nakedness.

“Turn around. On your knees. Spread yourself open.”

You stared at his face. Took note of the stern set of his jaw. The impatience in his brow. The flicker of opportunism in brown eyes. Memorized every detail of that face.

Then slowly, cautiously, you moved to obey.

\---

He thanked you when it was over. And he was neat about it, not a wrinkle on his slacks nor a hair out of place from the roughness of his tryst. The lights from your phone winked off. Drawing yourself upright, you switched the car’s interior lights back on dim. Blood orange bathed you and the aftermath of the Queen’s bargain. 

You held out a hand for your phone. Ymir wordlessly handed it over to you. With only the two of you remaining in the car, she shifted to sit on her side, casting glances at you as she slung a trench coat over the headrest of the driver’s seat and rummaged in the glove compartment.

“You could at least educate me on the terms those two demanded.”

Ymir refused to answer. She retrieved a packet of wet tissues and tossed it to you.

“Clean up if you like. Then we have to get going.”

Your legs were still trembling. Under the harsh lighting, your hips glowed red with the blooming imprint from rough handling. Darkening welts had begun to materialise on your wrists from their having been bound too tight for too long.

“Was I the main deal, or was I just the bonus?”

She turned away. Popped her door open.

“Ymir.”

She paused. Thin, outside air swooped into the car. The door slammed shut again. She reached back. Switched off the light, as if secrets told in darkness could be untold. “The main event was a percentage cut out of the monetary aid.”

You sucked in an audible breath.

“You just sweetened the deal.”

Of course. It was to be expected. But expectation could not quell the rush of rage that strangled you. You bit your lips. Dragged a hand over your face to keep the raging dam of emotions at bay. Choked out, “Let them back inside in five minutes.”

The trench coat was a touch too big, and much too long, but it was better solace than your ruined clothes. You raked fingers through your hair. Found your shoes. Then you were stripping soiled car seat covers and throwing them all in the back. 

It did not erase the stench of sex. 

Shivering, you fisted your hands and called to Ymir. The men piled back in, one beside you and one up front, beside Ymir. The Minister of Finance coolly examined his fingernails. “I thought we were in a hurry?”

You ignored his remark. “You two. You will give the orders now. Deploy the troops and send out the money.”

The Minister of Defence whirled around from his front seat. “It’s the middle of the night!”

“Weren’t we in a hurry?” you retorted. Mocking. Sing-song. “Go on. Phones out. Let me hear it.” The Minister of Finance glared at you. You glared back. “Send everything granted in the Aid Law. Every last Thaler and every last, miserable cavalryman. I’m keeping count.”

Finance tilted his head back. Looked his nose down at you. “You don’t call the shots here. You’re just part of the package.”

“You’re forgetting our videos.”

“You’ll destroy yourself, too.”

You laughed. “But not before I destroy you.” Mimicking him, you leaned back. Crossed your legs for good measure. “I’m just an anonymous, puny little diplomat. And I’m resigning. What have I got to lose? But you?” You let your gaze drift to Defence, who stared wide-eyed and looked ready to have an aneurysm. “You’ve got _the world_ to lose.”

Finance cussed. Defense blubbered.

“I’ve learned a thing or two from sleeping around with the likes of you.”

The phones came out. Calls were made to sleepy, dream-addled executives. The troops would be readied. The money would be wired directly from Treasury. Seven a.m. sharp. Even before business hours. 

“Happy now?” Because Finance clearly was not. Defence was just relieved, in that deflated balloon, whipped way of his.

“Quite.” Then you and Ymir stepped out to rearrange seating for the trip to wherever.

Defense climbed in beside Finance. The van door slammed in the wake of his behind. 

Once you’d taken stock of your surroundings for the first time, you whirled on Ymir, eyes flashing, anger so consuming you could not even find the words to speak. She raised her hands, but there was no remorse in the placating gesture. Instead of regret, she looked sheepish, of all things!

“It was purely a matter of practicality! It was the nearest place -!”

You had no name horrible enough to call her. Ignoring the pair of black-clothed men apparently with her, you advanced on her.

The soil that crunched beneath your feet was familiar - so painfully familiar. Her shirt crumpled in your fists. You dragged her forward and shoved her back, slamming her into the driver’s door of the van. She was still holding up her hands. Her two burly companions did not twitch.

“How could you?” you croaked, your throat like sandpaper. 

The van was parked at the most concealed spot by the ruined Embassy building, right beside a half-finished wall, by a canvas sheet strung under the window of the conference room where Marco was killed. If you could see through the canopy, you could look right into the room from the wrecked window frames.

“How many times must you insult me in one night?” You cried, banging her again and again against the van. Her head bounced against the bulletproof windows. She groaned.

“Yeah, I deserve that.”

“Goddamn you! You and your queen!”

She patted your fist, expression still contorted into a wince. “You can thrash me later. It’s unbecoming for a diplomat to lose her temper in front of foreign dignitaries.”

You shoved away from her, teeth bared. “Those _dignitaries_ have had their cocks inside me for the past hour or so and _this_ is unbecoming?” With a muffled scream of rage, you stumbled backwards, hugging yourself until your back met concrete. “What kind of sick people are you? My colleagues _died_ here and you offered me up to be raped in the same damn place?”

Ymir gripped your arm. You tried to shake her away, but her hold was like steel. She tugged you upright, forcing your swimming gaze to her own steady ones.

“So you’re going to let that go to waste?” Her dark eyes tore straight into your soul. “Did you lie in that van and let strange men touch you for hours, for nothing?”

The bubbling anger inside you calmed to a simmer. Your rage dried into weary hiccups.

Ymir praised you.

Your wanted to throw up.

“Save your vengeance. Your mission isn’t finished yet. Her Majesty wishes to honour your efforts by letting your escort the aid home.” Her voice softened into a near-whisper. Conspiratorial. Coaxing, like you were being offered the chance of a lifetime instead of a plane seat back to a land for which you felt no kinship. “You are still a Marian diplomat. You must carry out your orders, regardless of how you feel.”

She squeezed your arm. Let you go. 

“We’re all soldiers in this - you and I.”

You let her words numb everything - every physical ache, every emotional whirlpool. She shepherded you to the front seat and you let her. Behind you, the two bodyguards slid in on either side of the Ministers.

Ymir took the driver’s seat and leaned over to strap your seatbelt on. Its click drowned in the hurricane of your thoughts. 

“We won’t be long,” she promised, patting the crumpled white dress on your lap before pulling away. “I’ll drop you off anywhere you like to pull yourself together.”

The van rolled backwards. Floodlight-brightened parts of the Embassy Building came into view. You drove past them on the way to the compound’s back exit. Behind you, the House glowed with all its lights, suddenly too far away. Suddenly belonging to another planet, another lifetime, with all its cozy memories and creature comforts.

You felt cold and drew your fingers into the too-long sleeves of Ymir’s borrowed trench coat. Ironed your sheltered fists over the haphazard folds of the white dress on your lap. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Ymir glance at you.

Your fists stilled. Nails cut into your palms. 

You leaned your head against your window and tried not to think of Erwin as Mitras sailed past on the other side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Bart Wald - that noble Pixis played chess with in Season 1 of the anime. Officially, he's just Lord Wald in the anime, but aot wiki said his Japanese name is Bart? So I just mashed up the two names. Not sure why this character kept popping up in my head when I was thinking about this scene. Maybe because I just like being contrary and his character panders to that???
> 
> Remember Historia's orders @ Chapter 24?


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Papa Levi plays wingman.

The van pulled up beside a deserted sidewalk. In this part of town, at this time of night, the sidewalks were deserted, everything dark and quiet.

You unlocked your seatbelt and moved to open the door.

“Sure you’re all right?” Under the insufficient glow of a street lamp, Ymir’s freckles blurred and her irises glowed yellow, like a cat’s.

“I won’t kill myself,” you muttered. The door catch gave. You shoved it open and stumbled into the cold darkness, borrowed coat flapping, carelessly folded dress tucked against your stomach.

“Hey -” Ymir put in. 

You slammed the door in her face. 

Undeterred, she rolled down the passenger seat window and called again. “Hey.” The van kept pace with you as you stalked down the sidewalk. “Aid will be leaving for Maria at seven in the morning. Remember that, and show up at the airport before then, okay?”

“Sure.” you ground out. “Five minutes in the limelight in exchange for two hours in the van. What a great deal. Won’t miss it for the world.”

If your jab made Ymir feel any remorse, it didn’t show on her face. “Don’t be that way,” she cajoled. “We were thinking of you, too. Thought you’d jump at the chance to go home. Stay a few days while Her Majesty sorts out the Titans. Then she’d like to meet you. In between, you can do whatever you want.”

Except Maria held no allure for you. You’d not been there in years, the last time being only a short stay long enough to complete the foreign service examinations after graduating university. Maria was your birthplace, but you had no roots there.

The van continued to tail you, cruising right past a red light as you crossed the pedestrian lane. Crushing your phone in hand, you resolutely ignored Ymir and marched forward.

“Hey,” she called again, draped halfway across the cab of the van, one arm slung over the steering wheel as she stared bullets at you through the passenger window, “Promise me you won’t die. And that you’ll show up at the airport.”

“I will.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you _ sure _ ?”

No answer.

“Where the hell are you going, anyway?” Her arm separated from the wheel long enough to wave at all the sleeping buildings; at the United Nations headquarters you were walking past, whose lobby was unlit and whose front fountain had gone stagnant. “I thought you were going to stick around for the joyride before asking me to drop you back off at the Embassy.”

You didn’t even acknowledge her presence.

The van braked to an abrupt halt. She got out in a huff, jogged around, and grabbed you by the shoulders. “Speak, why don’t you? Or I’ll take you back with me!”

You glared. Half-heartedly. Weakly. You were exhausted, and it dribbled out in your sigh. “I’ve had a long day. You’ve contributed enough to it. Leave me alone.”

“I will when I know you’re not going to do anything stupid!”

Her words aroused no gratefulness in you. Ymir wasn’t looking out for your safety out of the goodness of her heart or out of any sense of human concern. She was simply ensuring your continued existence in the interest of carrying out her duties.

You were too tired to keep up with this.

“I know where I’m going and I’m not going to die between now and seven in the morning, so will you please go away and let me be?” The words quivered in the air before dropping hollowly, one after another, to the pavement, where they scattered like misshapen marbles.

Ymir released you. Beside you both, the van hummed. She searched your downcast face, frowned to herself, but nodded. Then she retreated, retracing her steps around and back into her vehicle. Slammed the driver’s door shut and leaned towards the still-open passenger’s window to peer at you.

“See you at Trost.” The window rolled up and she, and the lot of them, drove away.

You stood in the middle of the sidewalk until you were certain that Ymir and company had rounded infinitesimal street corners. Then you resumed your walk. Switched on your phone, deleted the latest video without looking, and attempted to meditate in the quiet clicking of your shoes upon concrete.

_ Click. Click. Click. _

You knew exactly where to go.

You were damaged goods now. Not even Erwin, with all his well intentions, could cure you from your old propensities. 

Once a whore, always a whore.

There was only one place you could go to now.

Down one road and up another street, turning corners until the sleepy silence grew brighter; until black edifices became yellow-lighted lobbies of high-rise apartments and concrete turned to tile.

_ Click, click. Clack, clack, clack. _

The night receptionist started at your appearance, used to seeing you come and go at odd hours but unprepared for your dishevelled appearance tonight. He scrabbled for the phone, receiver pressed to his cheek, fingers poised to dial - the police? emergency service? - when you stepped into the elevator and turned around.

Your eyes met through the closing doors.

You knew where you were going. Knew to push the button for one of the top floors. Knew, upon arrival, to take the hallway to your right; to find the last door.

It was probably pushing four in the morning now.

You rang the bell. A pyjama-clad Levi opened it.

You tripped through the threshold into his shocked arms.

\---

When he found you next, you were in his bathroom, sitting on the edge of the tub, skin scrubbed raw, hair dripping over the back of your t-shirt, used towel balled up and condensing onto the borrowed sweatpants over your lap.

He retrieved the towel without a word, tossed it into a nearby hamper, hauled you up, marched you to the kitchen, and parked you in front of a pair of teacups and a pot of brewing tea. Then he took the opposite chair, poured, and nudged one of the cups of rippling gold amber towards you.

Your hands crawled up, found the delicate porcelain, and greedily sheathed it between your palms. Levi watched you from the corner of his eyes.

You sighed. Eyes the steam as it swayed with your breath. “The aid will be leaving for Maria in the morning at seven o’clock. I will be...accompanying it...back…”

You couldn’t say  _ home. _

Caught in the tines of his fingers, Levi’s teacup froze halfway to his mouth. He eyed you over the bend of his wrist. “It’s that fat fuck Wald and that crook Sannes, isn’t it?”

Mouth twisting, you nodded.

Levi’s teacup arched back down. Clattered onto the kitchen table. “Whose orders?”

“Historia’s,” you murmured, ducking your head.

He swore. The hand that remained in your line of sight balled into a fist. “That brat,” he growled, “She will be taught a lesson -”

“She’s mine,” you cut in, shaky but sure. He stared at you. You raised your head to meet his eyes. “She’s mine to deal with.”

Silver narrowed. “What do you propose to do?”

You blinked, and your gaze skittered across the kitchen. “I don’t know yet.”

He swore again, this time under his breath, about how you were both the same - insufferably impulsive brats - and picked up his tea anew. “You know the rule: favour for favour.”

“I know.”

“Then you also know that you’ve done Historia no favours.”

Your head whipped towards him. “Tonight -”

“Tonight, you obeyed orders. You did no one a favour.”

Your jaw ground together. The hot pressure of angry tears thrummed behind your eyeballs. “She had me raped -”

“You did her no favours!” He snapped, his tone sharp; all-knowing and final. You shut your mouth. Stared defiantly at him. He returned the look. “That’s why you’re not going to ask Historia to even the scales. You’re  _ going to make her _ do your bidding.”

Your hands fell away from the teacup. “What?”

He sipped at his drink. Tossed one arm over the back of the empty chair beside him. “You’re going to make Her Royal Brattiness pay up, on your terms and on your say-so.”

“I -” You licked your lips, uncertain. “I can?”

“You were so sure of it a minute ago -  _ ‘She’s mine to deal with’ _ ,” he mimicked you in an awfully pitchy, sing-song deadpan. 

You winced. He rolled his eyes.

“You didn’t think this through.”

“No,” you admitted, defensive. “Before tonight, I didn’t have to think of taking on the queen.”

“Pity,” Levi scoffed, “when your secret weapon for it was eating out of your hands all this time.”

“I don’t have a secret weapon.”

He tsk’ed. Glared at you. Glanced down at his empty teacup, tsk’ed at it, and glowered at you. “What do you call Erwin Smith?”

“I’m not going to use Erwin!” you protested.

“Maybe not,” he shrugged, “but I have no such qualms. And I  _ am _ interested in helping you get one up over Historia.” Setting his teacup aside, he leaned on his elbows towards you. “That thief Sannes may have greenlighted the release of funds, but no money ever leaves the Treasury without the Prime Minister’s approval, remember?” 

He tapped a finger on the table between you, punctuating his words, “Do you really think Erwin’s going to sign for the release of millions - billions - of Thalers without asking how we suddenly fast-tracked the release negotiations that Ministers Pig and Crook have worked to stall for weeks?”

You were beginning to see what he meant. 

“If Erwin doesn’t sign, Historia doesn’t get her money. And Erwin won’t sign if either you or I ask him not to.”

You barked a laugh and shook your head. “That just might work.”

“It will,” he said, all breezy self-assurance. “Now, about those two Ministers -”

Your laughter dried up. Your shoulders slumped, you chin dipping way down to your chest. When you spoke, it was in an embarrassed whisper. “Never mind about them.”

“The fuck do you mean by that?”

“I mean,” you murmured, worrying your lip as you curled into yourself, “just let them be.”

“Oh, hell no.”

“It was inevitable.” You sought shelter behind the delicate, warm porcelain of your teacup. The liquid came to shore against your lips. You tilted it back. “What happened tonight...was the product of all I’ve done.” You blinked slowly, your words evaporating with the steam that swirled into suddenly-hot eyes. “My reputation’s come back to bite me. I’ve simply...come full circle.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“I’m too tired to believe anything else.” Porcelain clanked onto wood. Tears brimmed at the seam of your closed eyes. You sniffled them back.

“All right,” Levi conceded, “Believe what you like, but I’m going to make those motherfuckers pay. And if not me, then Erwin.”

“No,” you croaked, and a stray saline droplet skied down one cheek. “No, not Erwin. Because from now on, there’s no more Erwin.” 

Holding your breath to stem the tears, you opened your eyes. They swam. You tried to smile, and that one swam as well.

“I can’t have him anymore. I’m a filthy whore. I don’t deserve him -”

“What the fuck -”

You smiled wider. It made your cheeks ache when your jaw already hurt from being clenched so hard. “I’ve thought about it and decided that maybe what I really want isn’t for me. Or maybe it’s being kept away from me as punishment for wanting more.” The words caught. Your eyes swam. “For not being grateful enough for what I already had.”

You were crying openly now, the tears coming faster than you could catch them. They dripped off your chin onto the heels of your palms and down the insides of your arms. Levi got up, concerned, and pulled you against himself. You bawled into his stomach.

“You’re not making any sense,” he muttered, fingertips sinking into your hair and raking against your scalp. “So quit thinking up all this bullshit. What ‘s the point of making yourself cry?”

“Because it’s true -” you hiccuped, “we had such a good run together. We accomplished so much - much more and far quicker than anyone who came before us.”

“That’s what spoiled Historia,” Levi bitterly said. Too much, too soon, for such an impatient queen. Your success only served to feed her paranoia.

“But I liked it,” you whispered, snivelling into his shirt. “Our run. Working with you. I liked it until I thought that if I wasn’t a diplomat - if I wasn’t in any way connected to Maria - I’d have a better chance at being with Erwin. At staying with him. Then,” you admitted, shame-faced, “I thought of resigning.”

Levi stiffened underneath your grasp. You held him tighter. The wet puddle on his shirt seeped outwards. 

“But against all odds, I’m still a diplomat.” Your muffled laughter rang hollow. “Maybe it’s all I’m good for until I can’t fuck my way around a negotiation table anymore!”

“Erwin would hate to hear you say that,” he murmured. The hand in your hair combed down to its ends, found your back, and ran soothing strokes up and down it. “Blondie doesn’t think you have to deserve him. He wants you as much as you want him.”

Swallowing the lump at your throat, you turned to rest your cheek against Levi’s damp t-shirt. “It’s nice of you to say it, anyway.” Then, giving him one final squeeze, sniffling one last time, you pulled away and swiped at your face. “Thanks for letting me crash. I have to get going in a bit.”

He stilled you, holding you by the shoulder. Tilted your face up to force you to focus on him. “When you get to Maria, don’t let your guard down, not even for a moment. Don’t trust the queen.”

“No, of course not. Not if I’m going to make her -”

A thumb to the chin silenced you. “As diplomats, we are expected to be loyal. But it’s not so for higher-ups, and especially not for queens.”

“Levi -”

“No.” He’d never been so vehement before. “Listen to me. Historia is coming into her own as a politician. She won’t stay meek and pure-hearted. So you have to learn this  _ now _ .” His grasp dug into you. “The higher-ups don’t care about us. Until we rise to their level, we don’t count. Until then, we’re replaceable pawns. Do you understand?”

You nodded even though you didn’t want to. It hurt you to think of Levi - with all his rough sincerity and blunt conscientiousness - turning into a callous shot caller who decided on the continuity of human lives. 

But he’d already started down that route. And so had you. You and he, like Erwin and everyone clambering up the food chain, were already predators. Already deciding human fates and being perpetually on edge for it, always afraid of being eaten by larger beings and ending up like Nile Dawk and Reiner Braun and Bertholdt Hoover. 

Chewed up and spat out as nothing more than bones.

In truth, it was really just more difficult to accept than to understand.

“Call me when you get there,” he made you promise, “Call me everyday. Three times a day. Call me even if you’re in the middle of a meeting with that royal brat - especially if she tries to turn on you. Call me when you’re afraid, when you’re unsure. When you hear a bang in your closet or a shitty ass branch scraping at your window. Call me for  _ anything _ , do you understand?”

You nodded again.

“Until you’re back where I can see you, you will call me to let me know that you are alive and well. You will call me until I’m sick of seeing your name light up my damn phone.”

“I will, Levi. I promise.”

He sighed and let go, only to crush you back to yourself. He was your constant, and you would always be his favourite responsibility. Nothing would change that, he realised. Not even Erwin and his new-found Prime Minister-ship.

\---

Rudely awakened by his doorbell, Erwin stumbled through the maze of boxes – taped shut, folded closed, and yawing open, all supposed to be ready for moving to the Prime Minister’s Palace – and answered the call dishevelled and in his pyjamas.

It was one of the special guards assigned to the protection of the Prime Minister.

He squinted at the unfamiliar dark-suited sunglassed figure.

The figure held out a phone. “Your Excellency could not otherwise be reached.”

Erwin suddenly remembered who he was. Rubbing the sleep from his face, he took the proffered phone, opened his mouth, realized that he had not yet learned the names of his new bodyguards and could not even tell if this one was from the same shift as those who insisted on accompanying him home last night, and settled for slinking back into his apartment with a curt nod.

“Hello?” His voice was still raspy. He padded into the kitchen for a glass of water.

“Mr. Smith? Sir?” It was someone he didn’t recognize.

The tap water, icy against his glass, woke him up. “May I know who’s calling?”

“Floch Forster, Sir, Chief of Staff of the Armed Forces. Just calling to let you know that His Honour, the Minister of Defense, ordered the deployment of troops and equipment to Maria in accordance with the Aid Law. Sir.”

Now Erwin was wide awake. This was never mentioned at session yesterday, when all everybody wanted to talk about was Nile Dawk’s slide into insanity and the end of poor M.P. Hoover’s career. Erwin could barely even get a word in about how Parliament proposed to proceed regarding the Titans.

“When was this order made?” His mind whirred. He stalked through his apartment, suddenly restless about getting ready for the day’s business.

“Earlier today, Your Excellency.”

“What time?” Erwin pressed.

The voice faltered, baffled. “A little after two o’clock in the morning today. Just a few hours ago.”

“And you’re only calling me about it now?” Erwin felt that sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach and muttered some choice words. Not out loud, of course. At least, not intentionally out loud.

The wince was palpable in Forster’s voice. “Apologies, Sir. I jumped right into action and disseminated the deployment order.”

Erwin sighed. It seemed that the first order of business in his administration was for him to assert his Commander-in-Chief rank. “Where are the troops now?”

“On the way to the airport, Your Excellency, Sir.”

The sinking feeling dragged his gut straight down to his feet. “I see. Thank you for calling.” And without waiting for a reply, he hung up to dial another number as he paced the entirety of his apartment, wandering into rooms, flicking on lights, forgetting why he was there, and whirling right back out. His place was ablaze with distracted light.

The groggy voice of the national treasurer crackled through the line. The man sounded a smidge irritated. 

“Sorry to wake you.” Erwin came off brusquer than he intended and heard frantic scrambling on the other end of the line.

“Mr. Smith? – Sir? – Excellency?”

There was something amusing about having enough clout to send people scrabbling at the sound of one’s voice. He couldn’t help smiling as he asked after the release of funds to Maria.

“It’ll take a while, of course,” the treasurer replied from the edge of his bed, fingers scratching absently at his scalp. Erwin was certain the man was trying to reconcile himself to the impatient caprices of politicians. “We’ll wire it in tranches. Of course, it’s impossible to get it all done by seven this morning, but it should be ready in a couple of days, as I assured the Minister of Finance a few hours ago.”

Of course. Finance and Defense. Erwin should have guessed.

The treasurer was still talking. “We’ll be coordinating with Maria’s own treasury and national bank as well, and  _ they _ don’t open till business hours. The fund transfer documents will need Your Excellency’s signature. I’ll have them sent over…”

Erwin was no longer listening. As soon as Talkative Treasury paused to say goodbye, Erwin ended the call to start yet another one. This time, he picked up his own phone. His finger hovered over your name when he trod on the cold tile of the bathroom, came to his senses, and thought the better of it.

Your night must have gone on long after you and he ended your routine phone call. He ought to let you rest. He hoped you were peacefully asleep.

Blowing out a long breath, he shoved away that other creeping thought. That niggling question that refused to leave him in peace.

The very thought of other men touching you, using you, aroused a wave of jealous anger from the bottom of his soul. When the thought raged behind his eyelids, all he could see, all he could hear, was your crying face and the convulsive sobs that made you shudder when you tried to hold them in.

Erwin couldn’t stomach the idea of having failed you. Not after that night when you gave yourself to him – the first person you allowed to touch you again – of sorts – after that nightmare with Nile Dawk and his cronies in the Ambassador’s Room. Not after he promised you’d never have to give your body in exchange for anything again.

It was impossible to believe you’d willingly do it again.

He passed your name and called Levi instead.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

Levi’s sarcasm was wasted on Erwin, who could only think to blurt out, “Is she all right?”

“Fine,” Levi replied. Too quickly, with a touch too much irritation. “Is this all you called for at six in the goddamn morning?”

“Yes,” Erwin griped back. “Because I just learned that Aid is on the way, and has been ordered to be on the way, since the middle of the night.”

Actually, he called to confirm his suspicions. He called because he couldn’t get through his day without knowing where you were, without knowing that the woman he loved was safe.

All those words bottlenecked in his throat and refused to come out.

Levi sighed through his nose. “So your sneaky Cabinet members have finally deigned to inform their Prime Minister.”

“They didn’t bother,” Erwin admitted. “I learned from other sources and figured out the rest.”

“That’s a shame. Those geezers are really making you earn your place, huh.” When Erwin didn’t reply, Levi took pity on him and said, “She left a while ago. Went back to the House to get ready to leave with the military aid at seven.”

“What!” Erwin started. A bevy of questions – half-formed, panicked, one-after-another questions – spilled out of him, all asking the same thing: when will he see you again?

“ _If_ she'll let you see her again.”

This brought forth a new wave of alarmed protests.

Levi cut him off. “Shut up, why don’t you. You’re embarrassing." And over the abrupt silence, muttered, "If you get moving, you might catch her before they leave.”

Erwin didn’t need to be told twice.

After they hung up, Levi stared at the “Blondie” glaring on his screen. He sincerely hoped the big oaf would get to you in time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *good run - a debater friend taught me about this slang. Apparently, they say it to each other after a great (verbal) tussle. It's become one of my favourite slang terms.
> 
> *character cameo - not been keeping up with AOT since mike died. The extent of my updated-ness consists of reading aot fan-wiki and begging friends to tell me spoilers, so the cameo characters were decided from reading the "personality" section of their fan-wiki entries. :p
> 
> \---
> 
> Finally got past this chapter! I was soooooo stuck and so stressed out over not being able to finish on time!


	30. Chapter 30

You would be leaving with them soon.

For an event of such scale, the fanfare was embarrassingly inadequate. You understood, you supposed, as you navigated the terminal of the military hangar. It was all so precipitate that the terminal was populated only by officers in parade garb, the Ministers of Finance and Defense, both of whom refused to look you in the eye unless absolutely, socially necessary, and a handful of bewildered press people sleepily fiddling with their cameras.

Outside, the Royal Marian airbus, especially chartered on short notice to ferry these dignitaries on their dawn trip to beleaguered Trost, rolled into boarding position on the runway shared with the commercial airport. Behind it waited a Sinian military cargo plane teeming with troops, followed by a short queue of fighter jets on loan.

The sun was rising. A general’s laughter rose from the social melee behind you. Everything smelled of coffee and hastily reheated pastries. 

You were the only Marian in attendance.

Plastering on a smile, you gulped the last of your cooling coffee, willing it to quell the sleep-deprived tremors in your hands, and turned from the window to rejoin the crowd.

Nobody from the Prime Minister’s office came.

You wandered through the bodies - thank you for coming. Maria is extremely pleased about the quick action on the Aid. Certainly, this will redound to both our benefits. Her Majesty is eager to sit down to discussions immediately after touchdown - doling out pleasantries and handshakes until the boarding call came over the intercom.

Everybody swivelled towards the podium at the corner - the podium with the Sinian seal, spotlighted, set up before the twin flags of Maria and Sina.

The empty podium, waiting in vain for the Prime Minister who did not deem fit to grace the occasion with his august presence, you heard sniggered whispers. Guess all those speeches at Parliament was just for show. Got him what he wanted, didn’t it? He doesn’t really care about Maria. 

A snort. Who does? We’re in this for the frontpages. Your ugly mug wouldn’t get there otherwise.

You pretended not to hear. You weren’t even sure whether to be relieved or disappointed by Erwin’s absence.

Tearing your gaze away from the podium, you dove into the middle of the congregation. Bodies converged around you and you moved in their midst, chatting as you led the way to the boarding gate. The men were content to follow. 

You waved them in, smiling for the press cameras when they pointed your way, refusing to speak except to spout hope and gratefulness for the Marian-Sinian cooperation.

You stood and smiled until the terminal emptied, leaving only a mess of used utensils, stained tablecloths on tall cocktail tables, the gaggle of tired, unshaved journalists, harried airport staff, and the retreating backs of the Ministers of Finance and Defense.

The Prime Minister still had not come. 

You turned your back on the terminal and its whipping, too-loud air conditioner. The last green-uniformed dignitary’s back had disappeared around the bending ribs of the jetway. 

You followed suit.

He would not come, the Prime Minister. 

Erwin would not come.

You realised you were more disappointed than relieved.

\---

At exactly seven o’clock, the royal jet and its entourage took off. The sonic force of the flight flattened the grass on the fields beyond the runway, and rattled the chain-link fence delineating airport property.

Erwin already knew he wouldn’t make it. And if he did, somehow, manage to arrive, it would only be to the humiliation of an empty terminal. Yet still he rushed over, and now pulled up at the side of the airport road parallel to the empty stretch at the end of the tarmac.

It was too early for traffic. The air was still sweet with the scent of grass.

He slammed out of his still-purring car, eyes trained in the direction of the airport. He was dressed only in a jacket and a button-down. There had been no time for a tie. The jacket was the barest he remembered to put on while running out of his place after his call with Levi.

The morning chill seeped through his meagre clothes. The cold itself trembled; the scenery vibrated with a god-like rumbling. 

He braced himself against the hood of his car, palms heating up, eyes turned skyward, mouth agape.

The plane carrying you roared over his head.

\---

The keys to Pastor Nick’s rise to social influence were a glib tongue and opportunistic cunning. The key to his survival was a practical intuition for retreat.

He used the latter now as he bumped along the Marian countryside, hidden underneath the backseats of a vintage car loaded down with camping gear and a driver clever enough to feign dim-wittedness.

Visionary by nature, Nick’s revolution was intended to be no more than a great social movement. Disillusioned by the laxity and frivolity of the late King, the last of his hopes were dashed by what he perceived as the incompetence of the young Queen.

She was foolish, Nick thought, to upset the commercial barons for the worthless pleasure of bragging about her reign’s supposed independence.

Impetuous brat, he had referred to her many a time.

In his mind’s eye, his instruction would whip Historia’s infantile reign into shape. Under his guidance would arise a Maria morally upright and conscientious. He would do so much for the sake of people and country - even at the cost of his life - to create the perfect nation. His perfect kingdom.

But Historia refused to appreciate his earnestness.

Fortunately, Grisha Jaeger saw the value of his visions, and a mere half month later, the Titans introduced themselves on national television after hacking into and interrupting a primetime broadcast. The monarchy stifled the people, they declared. Now, the people’s champion was coming to trample the monarchy.

From then on, the Titans irremediably became a homegrown revolutionary group. 

Their first incendiary act was the chemical defacement of an oil portrait of the late King Rod and his legitimate family that hung at the entrance to the Royal Marian Museum. However, contrary to the Titans’ expectations, the act was met with only reluctant regret. The display area was merely cordoned off and the painting taken down and ceremonially burned, following the customary manner for disposing of venerable objects.

Queen Historia attended the ceremony, where she was said to have looked relieved and to have even privately remarked to Dot Pixis that she was  _ so _ glad to finally have gotten rid of that “old, molding picture” that she could kiss whoever thought up that vandalism.

Pastor Nick flew into a rage at that news and vowed that from then on, he would give the Queen her fill of the fireworks she loved so much. From then on, the Titans engaged almost purely in explosive destruction, bombing and burning and shooting their way through Maria and Marian properties to spite the Queen for her insult.

The tin-can rattling stopped. His hiding place was much too warm, and his bones still vibrated from the uncushioned rumbling of his vehicle. Pastor Nick quashed the urge to twitch, clamped his lips shut, and held his breath. Above him, echoing in from the outside, he heard a muffled,

“Border patrol. Please step outside and submit your person and vehicle to inspection.”

The car rocked with the alighting of its only (declared) occupant. Nick’s eyes darted around in his darkness as he fervently hoped, through the murmurs of conversation outside, that the border guards wouldn’t get it into their heads to flip open the backseat.

A bated breath later, the car limped again to admit its driver, and all its doors and the lid of its trunk, shut with multiple bangs. The idling engine growled back to wakefulness and the car lurched forward.

Nick released his breath. Once again, they were rumbling and rattling into interior Sina.

\---

Eld Jinn didn’t even turn around when his office door flew open and the sound of documents skidding across his desk cut through the deathly silence of his cave.

“Get some light in here, why don’t you?” Footsteps. His visitor meandered around his desk to stand by his side, watching the video feed on his computer over his shoulder.

“Access to the top office remotely granted. You’re welcome, Levi.” Eld chuckled, gesturing at his monitor. “Won’t everyone be surprised to find you here instead of  _ there _ ?” he cocked his head at the video. The send off was just wrapping up, the cacophony of several simultaneous conversations providing a background noise to the procession of men boarding the Marian state jet.

“They’re all probably thinking about what an uncouth lazyass you’re being, skipping out on the chance to lick the boots of Sinian VIPSs!” Eld laughed.

Levi scowled and indicated the manila envelope he had tossed onto the other’s desk.

“What’re these?”

For someone of his (literal) stature, Levi was incredibly adept at staring his nose down everybody else. “The reason I’m here and not at that shmooze-fest,” he said as if Eld Jinn, director of Sinian Intelligence, should not need such a thing explained to him.

Eld upended the envelope. Out spilled a collection of photographs, all of one vehicle, its make and plate number clearly captured in each one. He glanced quizzically up at Levi.

“You want me to tail this car?”

Levi’s face darkened and Eld swore he felt the onset of a sharp insult. To Levi’s credit, the insult did not come. He merely narrowed his eyes at the other, strolled back around the desk, occupied the armchair there, crossed his legs, and made himself utterly comfortable.

“Those photographs are all you need to pick up Hitch Dreyse. Maybe even use them to pretend to have intel-gathering skills so you have credibility when you insist on tightening border control procedures.”

“Hitch?” Eld echoed. He’d heard about the woman, coupled with the vague suggestions of her being ripe for arrest, were it not for the dearth of evidence against her. He reminded Levi of this and received a derisive snort in return.

“Like I said: I’ve brought you all the evidence you need. Here.” He tapped an index finger on the scattered photographs.

Eld stared blankly at him.

Sighing, Levi leaned forward, picked up a photograph, and waggled it in Eld’s face. The picture clearly depicted the license plate of the surveilled vehicle. “This,” he drawled, dragging out every word, “is Pastor Nick’s preferred mode of inter-country travel. The good old holy man is stowed in there -” jabbing at the body of the car, “- under the backseat of this ancient contraption, which is on its way to the Jaeger mansion for asylum.”

Eld snatched the photo, scrutinized it, then looked between it and Levi. “You sure about that?”

“Of course.” Levi leaned back, self-assured posture back full force. 

The other squinted at him. “Who did you have to kill to get hold of this information? Because I swear to god, the number of high profile casualties you lot have been leaving at my door -”

“Stop being dramatic,” Levi snapped. “We’re not even done yet. Nobody died today - at least, not on my orders.” He scowled. “It’s public knowledge that Nick made a run for it when the Royal Guard began beating his door down. It was child’s play to have him followed.”

Eld remained suspicious. “If that’s the case, why bother letting him cross the border to Sina when you could have arrested him on your soil?”

Now Levi looked frankly exasperated. “How the fuck are you head of Intel?” he griped, “Didn’t you hear a word I said? Nick is on his way to Hitch for asylum.  _ The person you want to arrest is about to be visited by the most wanted man in Maria and Sina. _ Even if she does not grant him asylum, she is, at the very least, expected to hold incriminating conversation with him.” He clicked his tongue.”Get your shit together, Eld.”

In spite of himself, Eld laughed as he reached for his phone. He’d always personally thought he didn’t deserve the mysterious, terrifying reputation he accidentally stumbled into, and this Levi Ackerman was one of the few people to see past that right off the bat. 

As his phone rang, he remarked, “You know, I’ve been sending Olou Bozado’s team on these sorts of missions a lot lately. If I make him break another date tonight, you and I are going to owe him big time.”

Ambassador Ackerman was unimpressed. “If your men don’t step up to the task, they’ll be cleaning up Hange’s mess. That little shit has been going on and on about being on the Jaeger-mansion-storming-and-arresting team.”

Olou picked up with a cocky hello just in time for Eld to stifle a chuckle. He really ought to thank Erwin for introducing him to this famous Ackerman spawn. Work hadn’t been this much fun in years.

He also made sure to specifically inform Levi that Olou’s next date - still with the long-suffering Petra - was going to be on them.

\---

A battle was already raging by the time the Sina convoy flew over the pier towards the airport further down the coast. 

The military officers on board with you peered out their windows at the columns of smoke to the east, and the grey cloud from the burning Royal Palace to the south, conferring quietly amongst themselves before exchanging words with the accompanying Marian military attache, who radioed home base. 

Moments later, the jets accompanying your aerial procession fell away, banked east, and dipped towards the ports, leaving only a pair to accompany the royal charter and the military plane on their final descent towards the airport.

It was a veritable festival, full of people waving banners of bouquets of flowers, waving the Marian and Sinian flags as if there weren’t two battles raging in their capital, one of them only a few kilometres away, at that very moment.

The seatbelt sign flicked off. You stood, welcomed your co-passengers to Maria and thanked them once again for their assistance. 

There were claps all around.

A couple of Marian Generals, her Minister of Defense, the Secretary of Parliament, as well as a representative from Her Majesty’s office, would be waiting in welcome at the private arrivals terminal to conduct the Sinian bigwigs to their breakfast strategy meeting where they would stay holed up for as long as it took to recapture the International Ports and the Royal Palace, and to eradicate the Titans.

That left you with your sole instruction: await Her Majesty’s summons. How long that would be, and what happened after that, was open to guesswork. In the meantime, you were free to...go home. Wherever home was supposed to be.

The idea left you with an uncertain shiver of nerves.

Pilot and crew repeated your welcome. Then, with a hiss, the plane door opened.

\---

Grisha Jaeger’s secret den was not so secret anymore. Household staff surrounded its entrance, conferring but never daring, to even knock. 

It had been days since Hitch Dreyse took refuge in it, raging and railing about Eren’s treachery and about how he did not deserve the Jaeger name. Since then, all attempts to salvage personal belongings and movable items into an alternative safehouse before the rightful Jaeger heir (and Erwin Smith) descended upon the dead man’s assets, had been in vain.

Hitch locked herself in and gave orders that nothing was to be moved - that not a single thing belonging to Grisha Jaeger was to be touched - for she would not succumb. Would not relinquish anything to that Eren Jaeger, and would not afford him even the cheap triumph of believing that he had frightened her into packing up and scurrying away like a homeless mouse.

Hitch Dreyse had found a home in Grisha, and she was not going to give it, or the waning shadow of his influence, up.

Now she received news of the battle for the Reiss royal palace. The dynasty’s crown jewel had been reduced to nothing but smoking rubble, and populated with Royal Guards dragging out members of Titan militia. Those who couldn’t walk were laid side-by-side on the palace lawn like bloodlet pigs destined for slaughter, their mutilated, barely living bodies moaning and begging to be put to death by the armed Guardsman hovering above them. Their dead were displayed in similar fashion.

The whole operation was publicly viewable on satellite imaging.

Hitch swept her laptop off her desk and screamed. 

That was how her staff found her: bent over and yelling herself hoarse while her overturned laptop fizzled in and out of life on the floor by her feet. Nobody dared tell her that prospects on the International Port front were not looking too good, either.

Outside, a vintage car clattered helter-skelter up the driveway. Staff peered out the window to see it screech to a stop right at the front door. A man jumped out of the driver’s seat, hurried to the passenger door, leaned inside, and appeared to be prising the backseat open.

The butler slipped away from the mob of staff watching through the window and hurried downstairs.

Moments later, a commotion from the main hall drifted up to the second floor. An imperious voice, tainted with fear, declared that it was all over and demanded to see Hitch. Against the butler’s quiet’s protestations, the visitor stomped upstairs, taking the crimson-carpeted stairs two steps at a time while bellowing for the mistress of the household.

He flung himself into Grisha’s open study and began banging against a panelled wall. Behind it, Hitch shouted an incomprehensible reply.

Pastor Nick didn’t stop. He was red in the face and bug-eyed, and his clothes clung damply to his body. “They’re coming after me! Open up! Hitch!”

The wall slid open. Nick sagged, and slumped to the floor, where he flung himself at Hitch’s feet and hugged her ankles. “It’s all over! It was a difficult journey but I’ve crossed the border! They’re coming after me!”

Hitch bared her teeth at him. She shook a foot free, reared it back, and kicked Pastor Nick full in the face. The old cleric grunted, hands shooting up to his eyes, and rolled onto his back. Hitch was instantly upon him, her nails digging into the flesh of his neck. Nick coughed, struggled for relief, but did not otherwise dare to struggle against the woman’s hold.

“You good-for-nothing slimy snake!” Thumbs found pulses and pressed hard. Nick spluttered. The pressure built up in his head, rendering it fit to burst as his eyes protruded on their journey to the back of his skull. “ _ They’re _ after you and you come  _ here _ !?” Hitch shrieked. She dragged Nick’s head up and slammed it back down onto the hardwood floor. “You were going to get rid of Historia! Well, she’s alive and doesn’t -”  _ Bang. _ “- give -”  _ Bang. _ “- a damn -”  _ Bang.  _ “- about her palace!”

Nick’s eyes were white and he drooled from the corner of his mouth.

“You wasted men, money, and time! And what have you got to show for it? Running to me with your tail between your legs?”

Nick thrashed as the fingers at his jugular dug deeper and his instincts took over. His hands flew up to claw at the slender, girlish appendages around his throat. 

“You cowardly pig! I’ll kill you first!”

In a surge of final, supreme panic, Nick kicked and shoved with the last of his strength. Hitch, who leaned over him at the exact moment to deliver the killing blow, lost her balance and tumbled off him. The pastor crawled away, scrambling upright as far from her as he could with burning eyes screwed shut and a trembling hand protectively cupping his throat, the edges of which already bore tiny, bloody fingernail crescents.

“Miss Hitch,” he rasped, “have mercy. I’m not a fighter but I did what I could. Nobody expected Her Majesty to sacrifice the Royal Palace -”

Hitch stumbled to her feet. She loomed over him, braced against the edge of her desk. “It’s _you_ I ordered. To _you_ I sent everything you asked, on the promise that _you_ will avenge Grisha Jaeger and carry out his plans!”

Her fingers closed around a glass paperweight. She brought her arm back and flung it into his face. Nick flinched a moment too late. It struck him in the eye socket, shattered, and cascaded down his face with a river of blood.

Nick howled.

Hitch crouched before him, halting reflexive attempts to escape with a bruising grip on his shoulder. “I don’t like failure,” she hissed mere inches from his red-wet face. “Especially not when I’ve been promised success.”

Nick caught the glimmer of silver in her hand. Good eye widening to popping, he begged and begged for mercy, spewing blood and spit as he grovelled for his life. Hitch sneered at him. Grabbed him by the front of his cossack. 

Silver flashed, and his world went dark. 

He screamed, head thrown back, both hands plastered over his face as twin streams of blood flowed from both his eyes. Hitch grabbed him by the underside of his jaw and wrenched his face up. 

Pastor Nick’s throat bobbed. In another moment, she would - and he would -

A deafening whirr cut through the air above them - above the house - sudden enough to surprise Hitch into deferring Nick’s execution. From somewhere down the driveway, the wails of sirens burst into earshot. There were new voices, all shouting, accompanied by heavy footsteps. 

Suddenly there was activity all around him, surprised gasps and short, shrill screams from the staff. As he groped blindly through his agony, he was dragged up by his shirt, and soon heard Hitch’s indignant shrieks. Nick found his feet, his jaw trembling with the relief of being at least still alive. His hands were yanked behind him and he readily obliged, spewing forth the beginning of his litany of gratitude even though his eyelids would not open and he could see nothing but noisy blackness.

“Thank you, thank you,” he chanted in a loop, breaking out in cold sweat for joy and pain. The soldier next to him - he assumed it was a soldier - snickered.

“Thank  _ you _ . The capture and execution of a wanted terrorist will be just the thing to keep the new Prime Minister’s ratings up.”

Then he was hauled, bloody, blind, kicking and screaming, into the waiting military vehicle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *opening the backseat - heard a story about a cross-border roadtrip a friend went on. Apparently, the border patrol there was so strict that they had everybody get down so they could take the car apart. They put it back together when their search yielded no contraband. The car came out unscathed. x'D
> 
> \---  
> Editing and posting as fast as I can. We're down to the last chapters and I'm excited to be done.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daddy Erwin loses his temper. He and Papa Levi settle the score.

Congratulations were the last things Ministers Bart Wald and Djel Sannes expected to hear from the new Prime Minister. But there it was, fresh out of the mouth of Erwin Smith as the man himself signed a document from behind the desk that Nile Dawk used to occupy.

Though it was a startling sight, Sannes and Wald had to admit that Nile Dawk’s furniture suited Erwin Smith. In fact, Nile Dawk’s former office suited tall, blond, and imposing Erwin Smith very, very well.

So well that it was a tad unnerving.

They were waved to twin seats across the sprawling desk, and lowered themselves accordingly, Sannes more warily then Wald, who glowed from the congratulations he received at the door. 

Despite being thought to have a head full only of cash, Finance Minister Djel Sannes immediately understood that Erwin Smith’s preference to conduct this meeting behind the power figure of his workspace (sterile of personal knick-knacks and populated only by paper, a gleaming desk pen, and his face-down phone) belied the cordiality of his greeting.

He fidgeted. He and his companion refused to acknowledge acquaintance with each other except for the most basic official familiarity, and refused to look at each other even though they were seated close enough for their knees to practically touch.

Erwin took his time with his papers, flipping through each one as he left his guests to stew in awkward discomfort. Finally, when Minister Wald let out an involuntary whining grunt as he struggled to straighten a leg to retrieve a handkerchief flattened in his trousers pocket, Erwin murmured without looking up from his work,

“Excuse me while I finish this. I’ll be with you gentlemen very shortly.”

Wald squeaked, flushing hot embarrassment under Sannes’ withering glare. The handkerchief retrieval operations were given up, he stuffed himself back into his seat with a nasal huff, sulking at Sannes while mopping his forehead with his bare palm.

Nile Dawk, their dear friend before he went and embarrassed the whole of the Minority Party, had never been as difficult as this.

Erwin straightened his papers; set them aside. Slipped the slender glasses off his nose, folded them, and set those aside. Dropped his pen, shining nib first, back into its holder. Clasped his hands and leaned forward as he regarded the Ministers before him.

“We certainly didn’t expect such quick action on the aid.”

Sannes opened his mouth to form a derisive remark about the royal ‘we’.

“We, as in the rest of Parliament, of course,” Erwin cut him off. 

Sannes’ mouth snapped shut. Beside him, Wald had gone white at the mention of the aid. One of his soft hands was pressed on the edge of the Prime Minister’s desk, and his cheeks trembled with the burden of suppressed words.

Erwin turned to him as a benevolent master would. “Yes, Minister Wald?”

Sannes’ head whipped around but Wald was already miles too deep in his agitation to notice the twitching alarm on his co-conspirator’s face.

“Please,” Erwin spread his hands, every meaningfully cajoling gesture aimed solely for Bart Wald’s shuddering panic, “You know you may speak freely with me.”

Wald’s rosy bud of a mouth puckered as the rolling hills of his face scrunched up. “We didn’t do anything!” he cried out, slapping both hands flat on Erwin’s desk. “That woman - Levi Ackerman’s woman - she robbed us of our cut!”

Djel Sannes’ rage-blackened face spoke for itself.

Erwin feigned displeased surprise. “Cut? You mean you tried - _the two of you tried_ -” shooting a look at Sannes - “to cash in on the aid intended for Maria?”

“Nothing came of it! And the Queen herself agreed!”

“Shut up, you blabbering pig!” Sannes snapped.

Wald stared helplessly at him. His eyeballs compulsively shuddered in Erwin’s direction. 

“So it’s true.” Erwin unclasped his hands and leaned back.

“Who cares?” Sannes sneered, back too straight and chin too high. “There’s no record of it anywhere. And there’s no one dumb enough to squeal. Even if there was, all anyone will ever know is that we _didn’t_ get anything for releasing the Aid early.”

 _So there_ , that grey stare down the length of his nose seemed to say.

This brief speech heartened Minister Wald, who stopped trembling in favour of gawping at his accidental partner-in-crime. Then he began nodding, the multiple layers of his head and neck bobbing with the motion.

“Yes, that’s right…”

“Nobody asked _you_ ,” Sannes retorted from the corner of his mouth.

Wald frowned down at himself.

Erwin regarded them both. “I gather Ambassador Ackerman’s Chief of Staff is familiar with the deal.” He inclined his head towards Wald. “Maybe I should put in a request with the Marian Embassy for all of us to sit down with her for a chat.” Smiling humourlessly, “Personally, I’d like to hear how she managed to persuade you two gentlemen to give up your slice of the Marian Aid.”

Both men stiffened. Erwin lifted his brows.

“We were forced to do it!” Wald blurted out. “ _She_ offered! And then she said if we didn’t, she’d let it go round!” His eyes were wild and he rose from the force of his emotions. “The Queen’s in on it, too! Her people - those Marians - double-crossed us!”

He was practically prostrated across Erwin’s desk, gesticulating wildly, spewing spit and fearful venom. “We’re the victims here! Me and Sannes and the whole of Sina! Up to the last minute, those people lied to us! You’re the Prime Minister! You should be angry about this!”

“I am.” Erwin gaze was piercing in its seriousness. “I am very angry about all of this.”

Wald slackened. Relief broke over his face.

“Why don’t you sit down,” Erwin stared frostily at Wald, “so we can properly unpack your confession.”

The other inhaled sharply. He turned to the rigid figure of Sannes.

“Do us the honour, Minister Sannes. Tell us: exactly what did Ambassador Ackerman’s woman foist upon you two upright gentlemen?”

The sneering lilt in Erwin’s tone was unmistakable. Djel Sannes bared his teeth. “I don’t have to talk to you.”

“No,” Erwin agreed, head tilting to indicate the Minister of Defense, who had found his seat again and was now nervously beaming forlorn stares at his co-conspirator. “But I’d rather hear it from you. However, if you insist on being uncooperative, Minister Wald can pick up the slack. I assure you two, you’d rather be talking to me, in this office, in private, than to the whole of Parliament in a televised public session.”

Sannes pressed his lips together. Wald’s trembled.

“Tell him. It’s only Erwin Smith…”

Sannes narrowed his eyes, gaze darting from one man to the other. “This stays between us.”

“Certainly.”

Djel Sammes hesitated a moment more before. Then, grudgingly, “If you’re not dumb, Smith, you know that woman’s reputation as well as we do. There’s only one thing she can offer.”

Erwin stifled the blaze kindling up from his gut. “You’re trying to say she offered to have sex with you -” his gaze flickered to the hastily nodding Minister of Defense, “- the two of you - to expedite the release of aid?”

“You got it.”

“And this -” the words struggled to leave his mouth, “- this _evidence_ of your...coupling...is what you say she’s going to spread around if you didn’t agree?”

“That’s right.”

Bart Wald nodded so fast his face was nearly a blur.

Erwin’s brows furrowed. “What _did_ she want you to agree to?”

The nodding stopped. Wald’s tongue darted out to wet suddenly parched lips. He glanced at Sannes, who fidgeted until at last he confessed, “She wanted us to give up the cut Queen Historia agreed to pay us.”

Ah.

But there was still one thing - “If you’d already closed the deal with Queen Historia herself, why did the Marian Embassy have to get involved?”

Djel Sannes’ jaw tightened. 

There it was.

“Wald told you already!” He exploded, arms flying about. “Those Marians will stab you in the back on any given day! Historia obviously didn’t want to part with a single Thaler and sent her best whore to take it back from us!”

“And it was simply too good a deal to pass up, is that what you’re trying to say?” Erwin’s tone was a warning that Djel Sannes refused to heed.

“Weren’t you listening? _That woman_ made us -”

“ _That woman_ ,” Erwin growled, “is a Marian diplomat. The Embassy Chief of Staff. A video of _that woman_ being gangraped by Sinian politicians is still on the internet today. And until his queen demanded it, Ambassador Ackerman has refused to let _that woman_ \- _his right hand_ \- into the field for her own protection against men like you two.”

He glowered at Ministers Wald and Sannes, his voice rising with his indignation. “You expect me to believe a woman like that _forced herself_ on you? On _the two_ of you?” He snarled. “What bullshit will you spout next? That she held you down and rode you while you squealed underneath her?”

Wald cowered away. Sannes was red in the face.

The room steamed with Erwin’s fury. “I don’t take kindly to liars in my Cabinet. So tell me the whole truth now,” he breathed. “Whose idea was it to spend a night with her?”

Nobody dared speak.

“Who prostituted that woman?” he roared.

Bart Wald shrank into himself. Djel Sannes’ mouth moved wordlessly, his glare drilling into the wood of Erwin’s desk. When he was finally able to speak, he muttered, “Historia’s. Her representative offered to let us spend a night with...Levi Ackerman’s woman. As a bonus, she said,” and Djel winced even at his own words. “The cherry on top of the deal.”

“You didn’t think siphoning a chunk of the aid money was enough?”

The Minister of Finance’s eyes squinted in half-hearted attempt to escape his discomfort. “It would have been a shame to pass it up. We thought we didn’t have anything to lose, so why not indulge in a little fun?” he choked on the word. “Everyone who’s had her brags about how difficult it is to bed her…”

Erwin ground his jaw, mustering the effort to take slow, calming breaths through his glare. The Ministers had been put in their places. They were now thoroughly ashamed of themselves. 

He forced himself to calm down. It wouldn’t be wise to tumble into the full brunt of his anger. It was one thing to castigate on a moral point, but it was another thing entirely to remain angry over what could be interpreted as a personal affront. He wasn’t known to bear unreasonable grudges. If anything, it would only alert these undeserving worms to the extent of his investment in you.

Folding his hands together, he blew out a lengthy exhale. “I understand.” 

The Ministers’ heads jerked up.

“I understand,” Erwin repeated matter-of-factly. “You’re co-terminous with Nile Dawk and you think you don’t have much longer in office now that I’m about to appoint my own people. So you think to take what you can. Pay yourself back for all you’ve endured.” He shrugged. “If we’re always going to be in danger of public scorn, we might as well make our time in power count. I know all about that. I get it.”

Wald and Sannes stared at him in amazement. He returned an even look.

“I’ll let it slide for now. But you two have to make sure this doesn’t blow up. I don’t want to deal with a scandal of this kind and this size at the beginning of my administration. So if either of you make any trouble for me -”

“We won’t!” Wald squeaked. Wide eyes flew to his companion. “Won’t we, Sannes?”

Djel Sannes’ wariness seeped into, but failed to drown out, his relief. “Ah,” he agreed, dubiously appraising Erwin. “We’ll keep this quiet. There won’t be trouble.”

“Good.” The Prime Minister indicated his door. “In that case, you gentlemen are dismissed.” 

He turned to one of the stacks of paper on his desk, fiddling with them until his callers dazedly clambered out of their seats and saw themselves out. As soon as the door shut behind them, Erwin abandoned his papers, blew out an irate huff, and sank into the backrest of Nile Dawk’s uncommonly comfortable ex-seat. He glared at the vacated ones across him, the chair occupied by Wald askew.

Like hell he understood.

The fury inside him was a bitter rancor. While his back was turned you got hurt again, this time by members of his own temporary cabinet.

He could barely grasp the destructive rage that roiled within him. It consumed him, firing him up with thoughts of vengeance from the tips of his fingers to the top of his head, bubbling out until he was blind to all but one thing: Bart Wald and Djel Sannes had to be eliminated.

It was perfectly sensible, he reasoned to himself, for it was as much to vindicate you as to fulfill his vow to destroy worlds - to wipe out people - to secure a future with you. Djel Sannes and Bart Wald endangered the future that Erwin envisioned.

He couldn’t believe in their promise not to make trouble; didn’t trust them not to raise a fuss when his relationship with you becomes public. Both men had shown themselves untrustworthy, and now they had reason to resent both you and he.

So they would have to go. So once more, Erwin Smith would have to make a liar of himself. He couldn’t wait until they made trouble. By then, it would already be too late.

Taking a breath, he shut his eyes, opened them again, and got up. Walked to his newly-transplanted collection of spirits. Browsed them and turned away, uninterested. Contemplated his office with his back to a corner, arms folded across his chest. Told himself - consoled himself for the last time - that the liquidation of the Ministers of Finance and Defense wasn’t simply about the satisfaction of a personal vendetta. 

In keeping him out of the loop, in intentionally moving so as to exclude him from the send-off, Ministers Wald and Sannes gravely insulted the Prime Minister’s office and cast it in contemptible light.

Their eradication would be a show of strength; a warning flex of power against other players who were minded to look their nose down at a young, inadequately experienced Prime Minister. 

The destruction of Wald and Sannes, long-standing institutions who had, of late, grown too big for their britches, would show Sinian politics that Prime Minister Erwin Smith earned his position and was not to be trifled with.

If it so happened to also satisfy his thirst for blood, then that was that.

Erwin strolled across his office for his phone. Eld had remarked that one of those arrested at the Jaeger mansion were one of those caught on the security cameras wandering in and out of Reiner Braun’s room around the time of his death. Eld had also strongly suggested that the said detainee might be one of most talented of the Jaeger hitmen.

Maybe, Erwin thought, the man would like to be employed by a Prime Minister instead.

\---

Bertholdt Hoover had been contemplating leaving town; leaving Sina, even, to start a new life somewhere else. For several days, he idly browsed destinations, in no particular hurry. 

And then one day, Reiner Braun’s assassination was headline news, and he suddenly had that strange feeling that things - specifically, things involving him and every aspect of what had come to be infamously known as the ‘Marian Incident’ - were about to get very, very bad.

Nile Dawk had been driven insane by his own guilt and was now locked up in a nameless mental asylum. Reiner Braun was dead. Pastor Nick and Grisha Jaeger’s successor have been swept out of the picture.

Erwin Smith was tidying up, and for all his refusal to acknowledge it, Bertholdt Hoover, in his heart of hearts, knew his time was coming.

It swooped down on him one morning in the form of a strange woman in his apartment. She leaned casually against the frame of his bedroom door, smiling good morning.

Bertholdt jolted up in bed.

“Hi, Hoover!” she chirped, as certainly as the smell of coffee hung in the air. “You’re up. Good!” She sauntered over to him, and before Bertholdt could think through his shock to defend himself, she’d wrangled both his arms behind his back, hauled him up, and marched him out to the landing of his loft. 

A noose draped limply over the railing.

“Oh, don’t worry about that!” she said, much too breezily. “I’m quite adept with it!”

“Who are you?” Bertholdt demanded, straining against her iron grip. Something soft and feathery locked around his wrists and, to Bertholdt’s horror, he found that they were cuffed quite firmly behind him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The woman danced away from him. Bertholdt whirled around, skidding dangerously close to the edge of the top step. 

“Careful!” she laughed, eyes widening in momentary alarm. “Though if you tumble down the stairs, that’ll make my job a whole lot easier!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” He demanded through gritted teeth. A note of hysteria had begun to seep through them. He slid back. His heel caught, loomed over the wooden precipice and he recoiled, stumbling forward back to the woman.

She guffawed as she caught him by the shoulders. “There you go, nice and cooperative. It makes me want to make it as painless as possible for you.”

“What?”

One arm darted out. Before Bertholdt could react, her icy hand clamped down on the back of his neck. She half-dragged, half-shoved him against the railing, picked up the noose - which he now saw was tired securely to the wrought iron rungs of his loft railing - unceremoniously dropped it over his head, and shoved him forward.

Bertholdt coughed up a wordless protest. The metal of the railing dug into the underside of his ribs and all of a sudden, the first floor of his apartment and all of its lived-in trifles rippled before his eyes as it rushed up to meet him.

He cursed ever wanting a loft apartment in his life.

The woman, whose grip on his nape never wavered, shoved him an inch more over the banister. He knew he should resist, should try to struggle for his life and his freedom, but his treacherous body inched forward with the combined momentum of the woman’s hand on his neck, his own weight, and the smooth fabric of his shirt until it was all he could do to lift himself up onto his tiptoes to delude himself into believing he was not about to teeter and drop several feet into thin air.

“What do you want from me?” he croaked. 

“Me, personally?” the woman repeated, sounding surprised by the question. “I’ve nothing against you -” the noose whistled until it swaddled his neck quite snugly, “- but someone else does.”

The railing slid lower and closer to Bertholdt’s hips. Phantom instinct had him scrabbling to hold on but his fingers only flailed uselessly from their plush confines, wriggling against the small of his back.

The woman noticed, of all things.

“Are those uncomfortable?” she said, and he had a sense of her peering over at the back of his head while she fiddled with the rope around his throat. “The dude at the shop said they were A+ for heavy bondage. Won’t leave a single mark, he swore. Said nobody will ever know I’d been up to no good!”

She cackled. The comedy was wasted on her victim, whose blood-filled head had begun to throb. His nose filled with pressure and the back of his eyes thumped alarmingly. The metal across his body was beginning to feel like a part of it.

“I’ve made my peace with everyone -” he begged. 

“Sorry, kid.” She yanked at the rope. It tightened just enough for the sensation of it to be vivid and alarming. “But I don’t think you got that straight. If my orders are anything to go by, anyway.” She patted the middle of his back. “Any last words before we get the show rolling?”

“Wait! Don’t!” This time, adrenaline came to his rescue. Bertholdt kicked out, rolling and squirming as best as he could. “I helped Erwin Smith! I sold out Nile Dawk to him! He owes me! I’ve redeemed myself!”

One of his flailing feet connected with a shin bone and the woman let out a surprised grunt of pain. He prepared to strike again, but before he could even aim blindly, the woman gripped one of his calves, shoved it down - he was dismayed to find that his toes had lifted clear off of the floor - and crowded him from behind, pinning his legs with her body and securing him, at least momentarily, against certain free fall.

“Don’t go making this mission personal for me, too,” she clicked her tongue. “Now, any last words?”

Bertholdt’s face was nearly parallel to the railings. The desperate terror inside told him that if he could, he would most definitely attempt to hold on to the railings with his teeth if he fell. When he fell.

“You’re making a mistake!” he howled, voice as crushed as his stifled diaphragm. “Call Erwin Smith! I have his number in my phone! He’ll tell you we’re allies! He’ll tell you I helped him! He owes me a favor -”

“Sorry. I don’t work for Erwin Smith.”

Then the railing disappeared underneath him. Bertholdt flung his arms out to scrabble for something - to find purchase on anything that would extend his miserable life - void even of the presence of mind to be surprised by their newfound freedom. His limbs rotated in atmospheric nothingness. His ankles clanged against metal.

He plunged into the rippling lake that was his first floor, tumbling in headfirst, his dive halted only by the coarse nylon tightening, dragging up, locking, under his jaw.

Bertholdt Hoover bounced against the perimeter of his staircase like a hooked fish, blown open eyes unseeing, legs kicking, tongue flapping with the last of his words as his hands, motored by unadulterated instinct, flew up to scratch at his neck.

Hange turned away. There were things to be done yet. Retrieving ex-M.P. Hoover’s laptop from his bedroom, she powered it up, gained access, and opened several tabs of news, all shouting the same thing: Pastor Nick names his Sinian cohorts to be the former Prime Minister Nile Dawk, and the shamed M.P. Bertholdt Hoover.

She arranged the laptop on the kitchen table, debated whether or not to pull the plug on the coffee machine, decided against it, and retraced her steps to check for signs of her presence. By the time she found everything in order and was getting ready to leave, Bertholdt Hoover had stopped squirming.

She stared up at him from under his swinging feet, tilted her head to seek out his face and saw only bloodshot eyes and a lolling tongue in a purpling face. “It’s Levi you forgot to make peace with. But you wouldn’t have found much help from Erwin, either. He wouldn’t have objected to this mission. That’s politics for you.”

Taking a step back, she considered his lifeless mass.

“It’s too bad, but I’m sure I heard Nile tell you it’s a dog-eat-dog world. You just happened to be the weaker dog today. Sorry, Bertl. Better luck next time.”

When she left, Hange locked the door after herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *thought it'd be hilariously ironic to have a cowardly minister of defense and an earnest and corrupt minister of finance. also kinda reflects arbitrariness of cabinet appointments, considering that since they're supposed to be the head of government's most trusted advisors, the said head of government can pretty much pick anyone.
> 
> *coterminous - cabinet members are generally co-terminous with their appointing head of government. but here, i'm assuming there's a brief hold-over period until the new PM finishes appointing his own cabinet.
> 
> *destroying worlds - i finally remember that this is from Paulo Coelho's "The Winner Stands Alone". I was half-half on the protagonist there. Still can't decide whether I love him or hate/fear him.
> 
> bertl's scene was written to the background of sentimental classical russian music. in hindsight, that was a pretty morbid thing to do. but at least i now know litvinovsky makes pretty awesome thrilla music.


	32. Chapter 32

It was all impressively efficient. As soon as the state guests left the airport, a Palace aide swooped in towards you, shook your hand, thanked you for your services, and asked you to remain in Maria at least until Her majesty summoned you. Then he mentioned an inconspicuous car directly behind the convoy reserved for the state guests, asked you to get in and to feel free to order the driver to take you anywhere you pleased.

You didn’t have anywhere to go, but you followed instructions anyway, trudging off and slipping into the civilian-plated vehicle while the public’s attention was turned towards the dignitaries folding themselves into the royal towncars.

The engine was running. Stalling. Waiting for the convoy to move forward. When you shut the door behind yourself, the driver’s gaze flickered towards your reflection at the rearview mirror. 

“Where to, miss?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted, slumping back and sighing long and loud. The lack of sleep was catching up on you. You shut your eyes and for the first time in hours, let yourself relax.

The car rolled forward. “Miss?” the driver prompted again. The convoy was moving.

“Anywhere will do.” You had no home, no nothing in Maria. When you thought of the cheering crowds outside, each person in it celebrating the arrival of those who would help them protect their special places - their homes, families, friends, and loved ones - in Maria, you felt empty. Out of place. 

“Why don’t we drive around for a while?”

“That might be a long one,” the driver replied. He cruised down the drive, past the arrivals terminal, and sped towards the airport exit. As he switched onto the main highways, you caught glimpses of deserted streets and, every once in a while, the dark blue-green of a lumbering tank.

Soon, they would be joined by their Sinian counterparts.

You passed the business and commercial districts which, despite their proximity to the ports, remained bustling with people. Trost was a funny sort of city, you realised as you stared out the window with your cheek propped on your fist. Everything in it seemed to have been built as an afterthought.

Like Mitras, Trost had its own Old Town, a walled city in the heart of the capital that previously formed part of a sprawling, fortress-castle compound. It remained ringed by a moat, which in recent peacetime - and the burgeoning disuse of moats - was ordered drained and remodelled by an artistic Reiss ancestor into an enormous, mosaic-tiled fish pond that ran round the diameter of the ancient walls. The peasant fields that used to carpet the horizon around it were now mazes of charming little cafes tumbling all over one another up to the pleasure marina along the River Rose, which served as a dock for the royal yacht as well as a motley collection of multi-coloured boat houses and recreational fishing vessels.

Radiating outwards from Old Town was Everything Else, in historical order. Only the banks of River Rose remained consistently populated with old timey shop fronts, swaying willows, and boutique bed-and-breakfasts.

Apart from those hallowed historical spots, the rest of Trost mushroomed up wherever it pleased.

Trost people too, you mused, face slipping from your knuckles until you resorted to leaning your head against the window to watch teenagers stroll through a tree-lined shopping district, were a strange bunch, still going around their usual business while their Royal Palace burned and their economy, which heavily depended on the continuance of the operations of the beleaguered international port, was on the brink of a crash.

And yet strangely enough, it was that complacent, perfectly self-centered concern that kept people from taking to the streets en masse and igniting fodder for popular hysteria and revolution. Unlike the Mitrassians who responded with riot upon riot, the people of Trost were content to dawdle along with their lives as long as their homes and their families remained unscathed. 

Queen Historia really had no reason for panic. She really had no cause to bypass Levi and to take the negotiation of the aid release into her own hands.

Resentment twinged inside you.

“Miss?” it was the driver, once again eyeing your reflection on the rearview mirror. “Perhaps you’d like to stop a while at a hotel.”

“No!” When the driver blinked in surprise at your outburst, you realised your error, calmed your racing pulse, and abashedly explained, “I mean -” you were unable to look at him straight, “- I’d prefer a smaller, quieter place.”

He smiled at that. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he did. “A b-and-b right by River Rose then! How’s that sound?”

You smiled weakly, peeked at the shining green gaze on the rearview mirror, and nodded. “Are you in Her Majesty’s service?”

“Nah.” Having got the formalities out of the way, the driver relaxed in your presence, wriggling in his seat for effect. “I run a little travel and tours.”

“Oh?” Your brow crinkled as you attempted to understand why the Palace would hire a ‘little travel and tours’ man to drive you around town and, presumably, back to wherever Queen Historia wanted you when her summons came.

The car pulled to a stop at a red light. Your driver swivelled in his seat. “Farlan Church is the name,” he grinned, pretzelling an arm around for a twisted handshake. He was all blond hair and green eyes in a big, friendly face. You were trying to place the name when he added, “It’s Levi who asked me to come pick you up. Never imagined he’d ask it of Her Majesty’s office.”

“Levi?” 

Farlan’s name floated up the surface of your remembrance now. Levi used to mention it in quiet moments when you and he sat together overtiming over bottles of red. He’d talk about his childhood - “all snooty brats from diplomatic families, and this one nut. Farlan Church is his name,” he’d snort, the corners of his mouth dragging up.

“Yep,” Farlan replied, turning back to the road as the light changed to yellow, then to green. “Mighty insistent he was about it, too.”

As you drove along, the trees on the sidewalk grew larger and older and the buildings shrank into white-and-pastel riverside edifices. The largest ones, built like delicate marina homes with white shutters and lace blinds, advertised themselves as ‘homely stays’. Every structure along the riverbank seemed to come equipped with a porch fully furnished with a pair of rocking chairs. 

“Called all sorts of favours and bugged me about it for days,” Farlan guffawed. “Strung him along, I did, just for laughs! Thought he’d give up and tell me to go to hell, that potty-mouthed diplomatic nightmare. But he didn’t.” He glanced very briefly at your reflection, his tone growing a tad serious. “Said he wouldn’t trust anyone with you.”

You couldn’t look at those curious green eyes anymore.

Farlan slowed as you entered a shared road. Tree-lined like the rest of the streets between Old Town and the River Rose, this one boasted of pedestrians strolling right alongside cars, sometimes even abruptly crossing the street for that one perfect picture of the rows of blazing autumn leaves.

“You in any danger of disappearing, Missie?” Your drive had slowed to a crawl.

“No,” you replied. “At least, not to my knowledge.”

“Levi seems to think you are,” Farlan shrugged. “I’ll be straight with you: I wasn't just asked to ferry you around Maria. He asked me to keep an eye on you. Make sure you’re not vanished under Her Majesty’s nose.”

The riverside cruised by with its swirl of red and orange foliage. “Levi doesn’t trust Her Majesty,” you murmured.

“Levi doesn’t trust anybody.” Farlan agreed. “He distrusts politicians least of all. I imagine he’s had his fill of them growing up. Always said there’s no loyalty amongst them.”

Blond hair and blue eyes flashed through your mind, and somewhere in your deepest memories, you heard Levi’s perpetual promise, _ I’ll make it right. _

He always did, too. He and Erwin.

“That’s not true.” And you found yourself smiling in spite of everything. Found the courage to smile right back at the mirror image of Farlan’s intense stare. “At least, I’ve had the pleasure of knowing honourable politicians.”

The green gaze tore away from yours. Eyes on the road, “Found yourself a good friend?”

Yes, you thought. “A very good friend.”

“One who isn’t Levi.”

You frowned. “I believe that’s none of your business.”

He laughed, brazen and unapologetic, and raised his hands in surrender. The steering wheel shuddered. “Had to ask for a brother.”

“Levi knows all about it,” you huffed, cheeks suddenly flaring with hot discomfort. A white-and-mint green home advertising riverfront rooms came into view. You ordered Farlan to stop, and jumped out as soon as he braked to stride across the lawn to the house’s front door. Behind you, the driver’s door opened and gravel crunched underfoot as he rushed after you, yelling with all his might and no doubt attracting the stares of those out on their romantic riverside stroll.

You practically jogged in your heels.

“Hey!” he called, his voice carrying in the rising morning sunshine, “Don’t be wandering off, now! I’ll pick you up again when the summons comes!”

“Thanks for the ride!” You called dismissively and kept on walking. You didn’t turn back. Didn’t pause or even glance over your shoulder. 

From now on, you wouldn’t be beholden to anybody anymore.

\---

The convoy of dark towncars, led by one bearing Her Majesty’s spokesperson, passed directly before the smoking shell of the Royal Palace. The entire avenue along which the Palace stood was cordoned off, the four-way lane lined with vehicles flashing sirens and whining into the high noon. Soldiers in combat gear waited alongside tanks. As one of the officers on duty waved the eminent parade along, a shout burst from the direction of the beleaguered palace, followed by a hail of gas bombs.

The force from the explosions thumped through the bullet-proofed windows of the town cars. Whatever was left of the Royal Palace shuddered. White smoke poured from what used to be gilded windows, soaring to entwine with black soot.

The Sinian military attache looked on in horror. He remembered this jewel of Maria on his last visit during the late King Rod’s reign. Beside him, however, the royal secretary sent to entertain him merely cast an indifferent glance at the remains and proudly declared,

“Her Majesty ordered the Royal Palace to be placed under siege when the Titans stormed it.” He sniffed in obvious admiration of this - his Queen’s ruthless display. “The Titans were burning it, so Her Majesty commanded that no mercy be shown them, and no restraint be observed in their capture.”

When the words had sunk past the attache’s terrified awe, he snapped round to his companion. “ _ Her Majesty _ ordered?”

He received a bewildered look. “Yes, of course. Otherwise, great care would have been taken to preserve the Palace, at the expense of time, troops, and resources.”

The other leaned forward. Last he heard, Queen Historia was missing. Like any reasonable man, he assumed that also meant she was dead, and everybody including the Marian Embassy was simply laboring under an elaborate hoax to keep it secret until the Titans were contained and some semblance of order could be returned to Trost.

“You mean, Her Majesty is  _ alive _ ?”

Now he received an offended frown. “Certainly.”

They whizzed down the long avenue right along the stretch of the Palace garden. Near the end of the road was a small gate, around which milled a gaggle of people in matching red-and-white Palace-issued identification slings.

The gates opened for the convoy, which rambled up the surprisingly meandering drive to a manor-style house.

“Alma’s cottage,” the royal secretary announced. The stone structure was choked with vine. “Named by the late King Rod for Miss Alma Lenz, the beloved governess of the royal children.”

Also the late King Rod’s beloved mistress, the attache thought, with whom he sired the present Queen Historia.

One by one, the cars stopped at the entrance to the house. When their turn came, the royal secretary slipped out first to usher his co-passenger onto the porch with the other Sinian guests. White flashes from press cameras - finally allowed inside after the last of the dignitaries’ vehicles had entered - went off in their faces.

Her Majesty’s spokesperson had been waiting for their arrival. They were welcomed to Alma’s Cottage, posed for the press, and trooped inside. 

The old house was surprisingly bright. Wholesomely airy. The press trailed behind them as the spokesperson, like a tour guide, led them through the spacious ground floor, his voice echoing up to the ceiling as he explained how the house, originally built as informal accommodations for guests during the era of lavish garden parties, came to be in recent times, the playhouse of the late royal children. In honour of all the time they spent there with their favourite Miss Alma, the house was eventually renamed in the governess’ honour by her charges’ royal father.

A military captain with an adventurous sense of humour coughed a laugh, remarking under his breath that for the house to have been granted such an honour, it no doubt it had to be the conception site of one other royal child.

His colleague elbowed him in the side, stifled a snigger, and in overcompensation to appear to have been engaged in serious conversation, wondered a little louder when they were going to get down to business.

“I’m sure they’ll show us the room where Miss Alma and His Majesty  _ got down to business _ ,” the captain chortled, quite unable to help himself. The other nudged him in the ribs again. They would have gone on bantering in that manner had not the Sinian military attache behind them, recently educated about the true nature of Queen Historia, became offended for her and hissed at the two to shut up, they were getting to the Great Hall.

A pair of Royal Guards in combat uniform scanned their gathering. Media personnel were not allowed past the doors. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the queen’s spokesperson gestured with a flourish to the lavishly painted and mirrored interior behind him, “the Great Hall for breakfast with Her Majesty.”

On cue, a door on the far side of the ballroom swung open. Cameras whirred and flashed as Queen Historia, fresh and smiling like she hadn’t been rumoured to be dead for some time, strolled towards her assembled guests, followed closely by Dot Pixis and a tall woman in a Royal Guard Officer’s parade uniform.

“Maria welcomes her brothers and sisters from Sina.” Her Majesty was all sweetness in a dark green skirt suit, and made sure to be perfectly visible to the press as she addressed the new arrivals. “We hope you have had a comfortable journey. Discussions will begin shortly.”

She waved for the cameras. Dignitaries shuffled behind her into the Great Hall. The doors creaked shut.

Historia found her seat at the head of the table. Now in executive session, her smile vanished, replaced by a grim determination much too serious for one her age. Large blue eyes found the pair of military officers who had been tittering together during the house tour. She smiled benignly. Deliberately.

“The Titans will not wait for us to finish all our social niceties. Let’s  _ get down to business _ at once.”

\---

It rained that night. You sat in bed watching the raindrops roll down the floor-to-ceiling glass window at the foot of your bed. Beyond, the world was black orange and turbulent grey, blurred with the splatters of percipitation.

_ Wouldn’t trust anybody with you. Wanted to be sure you didn’t disappear under Her Majesty’s nose. _

Farlan’s words whirred in your head. 

You thumbed the phone in your hand. Pulled up contacts, exited, pulled up messages, exited. 

From Erwin, three messages and several missed calls.

From Levi, absolute silence.

But you did promise to call.

Contacts. Levi on speed dial. 

_ Call _ .

Even though it was nearly the dead of the night, you knew he would be in the middle of something. Maybe he shut his phone in his drawer. He used to do that when he was waiting for you to return from a mission - shut his phone in his drawer and binge on work under the solitary light of his desk lamp. When you returned, he’d demand to know why you didn’t call and you’d say you did but he didn’t pick up and then he’d scoff and mutter off the corner of his mouth that he forgot he locked his phone in the drawer - but only because getting a phone call that you’d been busted or worse, found dead in a hotel room was just going to ruin his otherwise wonderful night -

He picked up on the third ring.

You were wholly unprepared and at a loss for words.

“Oi,” came through the line. “This isn’t a damn call for ransom, is it?”

That made you laugh. “No! What the hell, Levi?”

“I take it you got there all right?”

You nodded. “Met Farlan.” Its mere association with Levi made your chest swell with emotion and your throat tighten with sentiment. “You really - didn’t have to.”

“Knowing your plan to dive ass-first into trouble?” He clicked his tongue, muttered, “Exactly like that dumb blond,” and said, louder, “Think of him as your getaway vehicle for when you confront Historia.”

“You really, really didn’t have to.”

“Shut up.” And you heard the popping rush of hot water. Late night tea. He was at the office. You flopped backwards into bed and curled up on your side, phone between the sheets and your ear. 

“Are you waiting up for me? You know I could be here for days. You can’t camp out in the office until I get back.”

“Try me.”

“Levi!” But the tightness at your throat crept up to your nose, and then began knocking on the backs of your eyeballs. Swallowing around the lump at the root of your tongue, “Thank you. Seriously, thank you.”

He scoffed. “I told you: I take care of my people.” You heard shuffling on the other end, the quiet creak of metal hinges and the rumble of plastic rolling against wood. You heard him sigh and imagined he found his way back to his desk. 

“More importantly, when are you coming back? You  _ are  _ coming back, aren’t you?”

“Of course. You’re incapable of going about your day without me.”

He tsk’ed.

“I’ve nowhere else to go but back to Sina,” you confessed quietly.”And I’ve got nothing anywhere… but in Sina.”

“Like Shitty Eyebrows.”

You had no answer to that. 

“He called me several dozen times. Been a nuisance all day, interrupting my meetings and texting while he’s at session.” Levi sighed through his nose. “Talk to him.”

“We discussed this. You know I -”

“Erwin is embarrassing himself acting like a lovesick idiot on his first days in office,” he groaned. “Any halfway decent shmuck would take pity on him. I expected more of you.”

You giggled. Chuckled. Outright laughed. The pressure in your chest and behind your face grew unbearable until it leaked in errant drops of salt through your sobbing laughter.

“I’m going to hang up now. When I do, call him,” Levi urged. “Erwin’s a simple creature. He doesn’t worry about whether you think you deserve him. He just needs to know you’re coming back. Coming home to him. Do you understand?”

You did.  _ Yes, Levi _ , you wanted to say, but the words couldn’t make it past the emotion weighing down your tongue. He understood anyway, and when the sound of a terminated phone call blinked in your ear, you found another oft-dialled number and hit  _ call _ , this time with only a moment’s trepidation.

He answered instantly. His voice flowed into your head. Filled your body, your little room, and became the whole world away from the pouring rain outside and the looming dread of Historia’s summons.

“Darling.” He sounded relieved. Happy. Happier than he should be to hear from someone like you.

Your heart clenched. The pressure in your chest and in your skull drained. The last drops of tears squeezed out. You rubbed your face into your sheets.

“Erwin. I’m sorry I -”

“No.” And you swore that’s what a smile sounded like. “Thank you for calling. I missed you terribly.”

You hiccuped.

You couldn’t ever be without him again.

\---

Queen Historia sat in executive session with her state guests for two days discussing military manoeuvres. At the end of the second day, the Royal Palace was nothing more than a pile of ash, and media platforms reported nothing but the steady recapture of the ports.

It was at the end of those two days that the Queen reappeared on the porch of Alma’s Cottage, still in the same green ensemble she wore for the arrival of the Sinian envoys. She looked tired but had a smile to spare yet, and waved for the cameras allowed to keep vigil on the grounds.

You watched the live feed from your phone on the grassy bank of River Rose, stretched out under the shade of one of the ubiquitous willows. It had been so long since you knew such idleness. In those couple of days while the world heaved around you, time had never moved so slowly, nor life, so unhurriedly.

An incoming call interrupted your broadcast.

“Had enough R and R?”

Ymir.

You flew up, scanned the horizon. The glittering river, with its reedy grass and coloured rowboats, drifted along as usual. “Just about.”

“Good, good.” She was as breezy as ever, and more familiar than she ought to be. “You probably expected parchment delivered by a messenger dove -” Chortling at her own joke, “- but this is the state of royal summons these days. Her Majesty expects to see you tomorrow afternoon for high tea. Private meeting, but dress spiffy.” 

And before you could begin to say anything, the line went dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Home stretch! Done nothing all weekend but bake and write/edit. Last chapter up in a few hours - fingers crossed!


	33. Chapter 33

Afternoon tea at Alma’s Cottage was underwhelming. For all its reputation as the go-to royal garden party venue, the queen chose to receive you in a poky drawing room whose best feature was a pair of cloudy french doors that opened into a wilting autumnal garden. The turtle pond at one corner had turned mild green and was papered over with sodden orange leaves.

She sat with Dot Pixis around a dainty tea spread, Ymir keeping watch by the open porch door. Dot had his usual flask in hand, and stood when you entered. You curtsied at Her Majesty, nodded at Dot, and waited for further instructions.

Historia waved a hand at the empty armchair beside her. You obliged, lowering yourself onto the proffered seat, smoothing your skirt, and tucking your legs away. She looked on, amused.

“Tea?” For a queen, she at times really looked more like a porcelain doll, with her milk white skin and huge blue eyes. She looked like one now - a collector’s doll at her tea party.

“No, thank you.”

The burbling tea went quiet. Historia blinked at you. It must be the first time, you thought, that someone refused something served by the queen herself. But if even Levi, Marian foreign service’s Golden Boy, did not trust his own queen, what reason did you - nameless Embassy staffer - have to do otherwise?

The knot in your belly coagulated and sank.

“I didn’t call you here today to poison you.”

Your head jerked up towards her, never realising before then that you’d been glaring at the spurned tea and clenching your fists. The queen sighed, set down the teapot, and reached for a wooden box on the end table beside her. Pixis caught your curious gaze and grinned, wordlessly raising his flask as if in a toast.

“Maria has benefited greatly from your service.” 

The case was just a little bigger than Historia’s palms. She cupped it and smoothed a thumb over the polished lid. Under the sunset light slanting in from outside, the curling grooves of an etched crest darkened in shadow. 

“You’ve gone over and beyond for your country’s sake. For that, We wish to present you with the Order of King Reiss as a token of gratitude from Maria.”

She offered it to you. It was a mere arms length away, this most noble symbol of honour in all of Maria, ripe for the taking. Just like that.

Touted as the membership ticket to the kingdom’s most exclusive club, the Order of King Reiss was granted to only twelve people at a time. Historically, recipients had been in the league of geniuses and eminent personalities who had spent years and years contributing to the glory of the Kingdom of Maria.

But the sight of it petrified the knot in your stomach. Something about this didn’t sit right with you, and the feeling only intensified the longer you stared down at the proffered wooden box and the Reiss emblem carved on its lid.

Not a single diplomat had ever been honoured with the distinction. 

A diplomat of your caliber, who’d progressed so far solely on the reputation of your sexual prowess, did not deserve this kind of distinction. You knew it, as much as it hurt your pride to admit.

And as you stared back at the Queen’s face, all placid nonchalance, you realised that she knew this, too. She knew, as well as you did, that all twelve medals had already been given out, and all twelve grantees were still alive. 

There was no place for a thirteenth member. There was no thirteenth seat.

White hot anger surged all over you. Suddenly you were back in that dark van, fucking shattered, sprayed with the semen of old perverts and still trying to scrape up some bit of dignity.

All for this.

“Keep it,” you growled. Historia flinched. Ymir stirred from her post. You glared at her, then shot the full brunt of your baleful look on the Queen. 

“You whored me out and for what?”

How you hated her. Understood her and yet loathed her so.

“Maria would have survived a week’s rioting. _Maria is not even given to rioting!_ Dot Pixis would have told you that. You would have known that, _if only you could hear him through your ego_ ! But you were much too obsessed with your ratings!” Your fists balled up on your knees, fingernails digging into your palms. “You offered me up to be raped - treated me as no more than a _thing_ \- to soothe your paranoia and all you have to show me for it is a worthless medal?”

You slapped the box out of her hand. It clattered to the floor and broke open. The sorry badge, all thin alloy and striped ribbon, clinked to the floor. Ymir flew across the room, slammed into you and pinned you back by the throat. You were breathing hard.

You were still able to breathe. Maybe Ymir did have a conscience, after all.

Historia’s gaze drifted down to the overturned box. She made no move to pick it up. Instead, she murmured, “Let her go, Ymir.”

The arm at your neck loosed, fell away. The Queen met your eyes. There was no remorse in hers. “You’re right,” she shrugged. “That was a poor reward. What would you like, then? An estate? A title? Something from the royal collection? Or perhaps one of the crown jewels?” Her face was a blank, uninterested mask, as if she had heard, and well expected, this spiel.

“My services don’t come cheap.”

Pale eyebrows shot up. Historia’s baby blues looked larger than ever.

“You should know by now that I am used to being paid with favours.”

“Oh?” She tilted her head. “And what favour would you ask of the Queen of Maria?”

“Two favours,” you corrected, “for two Ministers.”

Dot Pixis chuckled. He nodded approvingly at you, as one would quietly praise a student who’d learnt well. Historia frowned at him. “What do you want, then?” Irritation broke through her cool demeanour.

“First: re-establish tariff-free trade and open access to the ports for Sina _only for as long as Erwin Smith is Prime Minister_.”

Dot Pixis exploded with laughter. Historia’s brows knitted. 

“That would bring us right back to where we started!” She protested. “That’s the whole reason Grisha Jaeger sent the Titans against us!”

“You can also admit that it would terribly embarrass Your Majesty to take back a nationalistic policy you campaigned so strongly for.” 

“No.” She sucked in an angry breath. “No, I won’t have it.”

“Fine.” Posture loosening, you leaned back, propped an elbow against your armrest, and crossed your legs. Fixed the queen your most nonchalant look. “Then you won’t have the aid money, either.”

She stiffened. Gripped the sides of her seat and leaned forward, livid. “What are you talking about?”

You wanted to laugh. Historia looked on the verge of a tantrum. “Getting the Minister of Finance on board your naughty plans isn’t enough. No money gets out of the Treasury without the Prime Minister’s approval -”

“And Erwin Smith -” she hissed.

“- is mine,” you finished. “So it’s _my_ aid money. I call the shots and I want a fair trade.”

The queen stamped her foot, rushed out of her seat, and stalked about the tiny drawing room. Two rounds in, she screeched to a halt before you, crossed her arms, and sneered. “Do what you want, then. I don’t need the money.”

This time, the laugh made it out of you. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Pixis smiling.

“Oh, but Your Majesty does. A battalion of troops is expensive to feed. That’s not counting wages, supplies, petrol and service for the jets and tanks, bunker houses, garages and hangars. Maria can’t afford to pay for all of that out of pocket. That’s where part of the aid was supposed to go.”

She stifled a shriek. You saw it in the way she tossed her head, the crumpling of her expression, and her stiff, indignant motions as she stomped back to her seat.

“You are a Marian diplomat!” she seethed. “You serve _me_. How could you think to ask for such a thing? How could you do this to your queen?”

Dot Pixis tutted. 

“I don’t work for Your Majesty,” you retorted before he could say a word. “I work for Maria and I’ve given her my all. I’ve cried for her, suffered for her, killed for her. And now I realise maybe she isn’t worth it. _You_ aren’t worth it.”

The drawing room plunged into silence. Even Dot Pixis, who only a moment ago was the merriest of you all, grew grave. You and Historia were still staring each other down.

“I’m done working for Maria,” you heaved, suppressing the tremble that threatened to shake you from its epicentre at your chest. “I’m done being her diplomat. Pay up now. Honour your title as Queen. Give me my due, and we will amicably part ways.”

The queen’s expression twitched. Her facade had cracked completely and now you saw that she was breathing as harshly as you were. Then she licked her lips. 

“And the second favour you want?”

Of this, you were sure. “Lend me Ymir. I want her to do away with Ministers Wald and Sannes.”

Historia twisted around and up. Above her - above the two of you - the Captain of the Royal Guard shrugged in her usual loose-limbed manner. “No need. Blondie’s already ordered it.” She snickered, suddenly friendly again. “No wonder you and he get along so well. Same day you left, Prime Minister Smith went to visit maximum security with his head of Intel. Late that night, those blokes released one of the prisoners they arrested from the Jaeger house. Hitch Dreyse’s best hitman, or so I’ve been told.”

Historia nodded. At you, “Perhaps you’d like to ask another favour.”

“No,” you shook your head. “I might have picked up some bad habits rubbing elbows with the bad boys of Sina, but I still know how to play fair. And I prefer it.”

That made her smile. A tiny smile that grew and grew until it split her face and she was shaking her head in disbelief of this irrepressible reaction. “All right. I can admit I’ve been out-manoeuvred. You’ve earned your reward. So it had to take Erwin Smith for you to defect to their side.”

You smiled blandly back. “I didn’t defect. I simply decided to take the side of those who’ve always fought for me.”

That put an end to Historia’s giggling. She appraised you approvingly, and with a wry look said, “Now I’m sorry I didn’t take much more notice of you. Seems Maria will be paying the richest dowry for one of her daughters today.”

You didn’t return to the bed and breakfast. Farlan was waiting for you at the driveway to Alma’s Cottage, what meagre belongings you managed to amass during your stay already stowed in the backseat. He caught your good mood and smacked you a high five during a thirty-second red light on the way to the airport.

“Finally a civilian now?” he joked, twisting around in his seat to flash you the biggest grin.

Civilian except for your passport. But you mirrored his laughter and cheered, “A civilian’s civilian. And I’m going home!”

A commercial flight to Mitras had never before been so comforting, or so liberating. You spent the red-eye capital-to-capital flight wide awake, mind whirring with the possibilities of your new found freedom. Of course you’d have to tell Levi, who would have to be allowed time for his obligatory shit-flipping. 

And then you’d tell Erwin. Then you could go under the radar for a while. Fly off someplace else. Live there. Find a new, neutral, non-political job. Maybe after a few years, when this Titan business had died down and been forgotten, you and he could try again. Maybe by then things would be better. Maybe by then you’d have a chance. A real chance at a real relationship. Maybe…

The plane touched down and all too soon you were standing at the arrivals terminal, busy even at this time of night. As you waded through the sea of fellow travellers, letting them buoy you to the airport rail everybody was rushing to catch, you heard your name. 

You looked up from your phone, away from timetables. Scanned the expansive, overbright lobby. Saw the crowds, the tour guides, hotel welcomes, and families. Noticed the hubbub at one end; heard the murmurs rising into a pitch of voices. Saw the bodies clamoring, phone cameras snapping and flashing.

Caught a glimpse of dark suits. Blue eyes. Blond hair, slightly tousled. Red-cheeked and puffing. Still in his office clothes, with a camel coat haphazardly thrown on, the buttons, lapels, belt, everything, hanging open in his haste.

You spun around.

His hopeful face.

You strode forward. Jogged.

His breathless smile.

You ran. Against your better judgment, against all the plans you cooked up in an air-pressurized cabin twenty thousand feet above the ground, you ran to him.

He opened his arms.

You dove into them. They came around you, crushing, bruising. He squashed you into his coat, to his chest, into himself. He smelled like the Prime Minister’s office, all mint and pine and bourbon. He felt as he always had.

“How did you know to come?” you said, voice muffled against his shoulder. He practically scooped you up, one arm around your back, other hand cradling your head as he pressed his lips against your temple.

“The Queen made sure to tell me.”

Then he pulled away to kiss you, again and again, forehead, nose, cheeks, eyes, and mouth until you were giggling and stumbling together. He kissed you for himself. Kissed you for you. Kissed you to show the crowd undulating at the fringes of his ring of bodyguards.

Prime Ministers did kiss in public.

\---

_The night before Erwin’s graduation, neither he nor Levi got any sleep. They sat up in Erwin’s frat house bedroom, the aftermath of a farewell party in honour of the outgoing president strewn around them._

_For once, they were not smoking or drinking. Discarded glasses, their bottoms stained gold with alcohol, lay toppled on Erwin’s cleared desk. The man himself was sprawled on his stripped bed. Levi had the sense - of civility and cleanliness - to turn his nose up at the bare mattress and to seat himself instead on his friend’s lone desk chair._

_“Imagine that,” he mused, staring out at the lightening night sky, at the stars turning into dawn and the echo of party music thumping their final beats down the frat house street of this side of university town. “You, going to be a lawyer. Why anyone would want to admit you to the Bar, I don’t know.”_

_Erwin groaned, scrubbing at his face as he screwed his eyes half open and squinted into his dim ceiling. Levi’s insult flew right over his head._

_“I haven’t done it still,” he moaned and rolled over to commune with the wall._

_Levi spared him a withering look. “You’re graduating tomorrow. You made it through shitty law school at the top of your class and all you’re going to do the night before it becomes official is cry over a girl you never managed to lay?” His words were cutting; his tone incredulous. “You’re_ Erwin goddamn Smith _, for fuck’s sake!”_

_Women throw their panties at you as a parlor game! He thought but did not add. He also did not say that this god among men in their insulated academic community looked absolutely pathetic aligned against his bedroom wall in nothing but an undershirt and boxers._

_“But I don’t just want to sleep with her!” Erwin protested, voice smothered. Slowly, he unpeeled himself from the wall and rolled over to his back, bangs flopping as he grinned dreamily. “I’d like to get to know her. And I’d like for her to get to know me.” He turned to look at Levi. “Do you know why I insisted on ingratiating myself to you even though you act like a tetchy old man?”_

_Said tetchy old man scowled. “I’m sure it wasn’t the promise of my warm friendship.”_

_Erwin barely heard him. He had resumed gazing at the ceiling and grinning hazily to himself. “It’s because you’re close to her and I want so badly to be close to her. I thought if I hung out with you enough, I’d get to spend time with her, too.”_

_“Gee, thanks,” Levi deadpanned. And then he pointed out, “You_ did _get that lapdance out of her. Didn’t think she’d actually follow up on that stupid dare.”_

_The other chortled. Shut his eyes and laid an arm over them for good measure, as if he was flustered by the memory. “Yeah. Marie was so mad.”_

_The pair of them laughed. Levi shook his head. “You got nowhere with her even after that.”_

_“Because I’m a fool. But I’m not going to stop chasing her. I’ll get her one day, you’ll see.”_

_“Yeah?” A protective edge crept into Levi’s tone._

_Erwin noticed nothing beyond his ruminous preoccupation. Levi shifted his attention from the window - the last of the party music had gone quiet, replaced by the staccato voices of revellers drunkenly saying their goodbyes - in favour of coolly raking over Erwin’s languid posture, his narrowing eyes the most serious they’d ever been that night._

_“And what do you propose to do once you’ve cornered this prey of yours? Fuck her brains dry?”_

_“God, no!” Blond strands swept side to side with Erwin’s vehemence. “How could you talk about her like that? I thought you were friends!”_

_“We are,” the other retorted, steely-eyed and steely-toned. “That’s why I figured now’s as good a time as any to hear your intentions.”_

_That gave the other man pause. He rolled over to his side again, this time facing Levi, and with head pillowed on an arm, murmured, “I want to go with her on long, quiet walks. I want to take her home, make her dinner, and hold her while we watch movies on the couch…”_

_Levi stared him right in the eye. The brightness in Erwin’s did not falter._

_“I want to talk to her, to listen to all those things she is so preoccupied with telling you about all day.” His voice quieted, grew rough. “I want her for myself. I want to give her the world.”_

_Levi looked at him only a moment more before clicking his tongue and tearing his eyes away. He did not look displeased._

_“You’re a disgusting sap.”_

_He did not sound displeased, either._

_“You approve of me.” A knowing smile lit up his face._

_“I said no such thing.”_

_Erwin was already hauling himself up, glee shining from every pore of his being. “You approve of me, Levi!”_

_He was halfway off the mattress, giddy happiness gone straight to his head, when Levi glared him to a halt. “You hug me, I’ll castrate you.”_

_Laughing, Erwin draped himself all over the other man anyway. Breathed into his face. Puffed promises into his ear. “I’ll take care of her,” he swore. “One day, I’ll get the girl, and I’ll take the absolute best care of her.”_

\---

Erwin’s apartment was transformed. What was formerly an austere, strictly functional bachelor’s pad was now made homey. You wandered the space in awe, marvelling at the plush sheepskin rug in the living room, the canisters of tea beside tins of chocolate and coffee in the kitchen, and the splash of colourful cushions on the bed.

He watched you, grinning in embarrassed pride when you turned to him in amazement upon discovering a collection of your books neatly put away on the shelves, toiletries in the bathroom, and some of your clothes hanging in pristine rows inside what used to be his closet, right beside a pile of his hoodies.

“Hope I’m not being presumptuous,” he laughed nervously, scratching at his cheek. “But when I heard that you resigned, I thought you’d need your own place now that you won’t be living at the Embassy House anymore. I, uh...wanted to save you the trouble of moving.”

“But this is your place,” you protested, wondering how on earth he managed to put all this together in such a short time. “I don’t want you to give it up.”

“I’m not,” he said, all earnest indulgence, smiling gently as he crossed the two short steps to you and rubbed your arms. “I’m expected to finish moving to the Prime Minister’s residence in a couple of days, and I’d like nothing better than for you to take over this apartment. That is, if you’ll have it.”

You tackled him into a huge hug. He staggered back, righting himself just in time to meet your mouth in a too-eager kiss.

“Make love to me.” Your heart just about bursting from your chest. You tasted him everywhere, walking him backwards and shoving him against the wall, his suit jacket crumpled in your hands, tie askew and hair dishevelled under your fingertips.

He pulled away for air, gasping, “Is this a yes? Have you eaten? There’s dinner in the -”

You silenced him with another deep kiss, tiptoeing up while dragging his head down to meet your searching mouth.

“Yes,” you breathed. “And no. And I want you. _Now_.”

Despite his half-hearted protestations, Erwin was pliant. He rid himself of the jacket you shoved from his shoulders, his hands engulfing yours as you cooperatively fumbled to divest him of his shirt. No sooner had skin been exposed than you were all over it, greedily caressing, kissing and licking sloppy, endless trails as he kicked off his trousers.

Wandering hands brushed over his growing erection and Erwin groaned. Open-mouthed, he breathed against your neck, stroking down your waist and tugging up the hem of your dress until hot skin slid up bare thighs.

You unzipped your dress and threw it over your head. The fabric thumped against the mirrored doors of the walk-in-closet. 

Eager fingers dug into the flesh of your bottom, holding you in place as he ground against you, the teasing, inadequate friction spurring him into frustrated ferocity.

“Bed,” you ordered. He dragged your legs up around his waist and walked you over to the adjoining bedroom where he dropped you onto the sheets. Clambering onto your knees, you unhooked your bra and tossed it aside as he shucked off his boxers.

“Sit.”

He obeyed, settling against the headboard. You crawled over, straddling him, humping his eager cock through your panties. Groaning an incomprehensible curse, he bucked, hands bruising on your hips.

“Take me,” you gasped into his ear, arms wound around him as you ground down, face buried into the side of his neck. “Fuck me. Make love to me so thoroughly I can’t walk!”

He dipped into the waistband of your panties, smoothing over and stroking your skin as he panted, hips writhing in need. Fingers trailed between your legs and you whined as he rubbed you with his knuckles, the pad of his thumb massaging slow circles around your clit.

You hissed his name. Your legs trembled. A longing rose up in you with his ministrations. A longing to be touched, a craving to be filled, in every sense of the word.

“Erwin,” you gasped, heat rising from chest to shoulders to neck to cheeks until your body was tight with impatient lust. You threw your head back, leaving your throat open for him to nip. “Fuck me. Make love to me. Fuck me. Fuck me -”

The rest drowned in a guttural moan as he dragged your panties aside and thrust up, bottoming out completely in a single motion. Your legs finally gave and you collapsed against him, hot, boneless, tingling, and shivering.

He ground up into you, the tiny motions stirring every part, known and previously unknown, as you struggled to stay upright. He held you to himself, swallowing your little gasps of wet pleasure as he made his way inside you.

“I wanted you for so long,” he whispered hoarsely into your hair. “Years and years I longed for you.” He thrust up suddenly and you whimpered, holding on tight as you shuddered from the unexpected motion.

Warm hands ran soothingly up and down your back. He shifted to lay you down and stripped off the last of your underwear. As he hovered above you, his eyes shone the bluest you’d ever seen them. Cupping his face in your palms, you opened your legs for him, laying yourself vulnerably bare for his inspection. But his gaze never strayed from yours, and when he dipped down to kiss your forehead, you felt the smile accompanying his words,

“You’re here now.” 

Here, of your own volition. Here, for no other reason than this. Here for me. Here for us.

You turned. Kissed the thumb lingering at the corner of your mouth. Hummed pleasure as he entered you anew, taking his time, savouring the many sighs and expressions you made as he tasted you and you him, again and again.

You made slow love. Deliberate love, all mad urgency gone now that you were assured of time and of each other. You kissed tentatively, with miniscule experimental pecks, exhaling laughter before plunging back for longer draughts.

He filled you to satiety, thrusting and rocking patiently until your giggles turned to gasps and your kisses dropped off with every mewl of pleasure. What was once a race was now a wonder. His lips brushed over every furrow in your brow and he held you, murmuring reassurances as you keened underneath him, back arching and heels digging into his back as you came for him.

His mouth found the hollow of your flushed neck. He sucked gently at the skin, let go, pulled out, and lay down beside you. You protested that he wasn’t done yet and reached for him. Shushing you with a kiss, he dragged you to himself, back to chest, one arm around your ribs, under your breasts. You understood, and parted your knees for him as he slid into you from behind, muttering under his breath with his face buried into the back of your neck.

“I wanted you since the moment I laid eyes on you,” he gasped, voice muffled by damp skin and sweat-sticky hair. His free hand explored your body, teasing your breasts and skirting over your belly as his thrusts grew more urgent, rougher and more erratic. 

You twisted around as best as you could, stroking his face and peppering with kisses what skin you could reach. From belly to hips, his touch strayed down to your welcoming heat. Still sensitive from your earlier climax, you jolted at the sensation of his fingertips.

“I’ve always wanted you, and I know I will want you forever -” He thrust particularly hard. You groaned and wriggled down into his groin. “Did you know?”

“No,” you gasped. No, but it was good to know it now.

He rubbed you harder, thrust faster, as if frustrated by your ignorance. As if making up for all your years of not knowing by informing your now, in certain, unmistakable terms.

You cried out. A cloud of pleasure was rising from your middle, blotting out your brain, erasing all cohesive thought and loosening your tongue. You babbled, twisting and squirming against his unrelenting touch, his unforgiving hold, as you drove down on his cock as best you could, matching his pace and meeting his hips until the second wave of tension burst at the base of your spine and you came with his seed spilling inside you.

Breathless, still entwined, you lay huddled together, trying to catch your breaths, his lips at the back of your head as you moaningly ground the last of your pleasure against the still-throbbing cock inside you. 

You would probably have lain there for a long while, too, wallowing in sweat and semen and the afterglow of unflappable satisfaction, had not Erwin’s phone rung all the way from the inside of the pocket of the trousers he discarded at the adjoining walk-in-closet.

You groaned simultaneous complaints. But after indulging in one last nibble on the shell of your ear, the two of you got up in deference to his new, perpetually on-call Prime Ministerial position. Dishevelled and naked, Erwin disappeared into the next room, bent down to scrabble for the shrilly ringing device (much to your satisfaction as you ogled the reflection of his backside. And frontside. And all sides, bless those mirrors), and returned with Levi nagging on the loudspeaker.

Grumbling in frustration, you threw your hands up and flung yourself backwards onto the bed.

“You’ve got a woman in there.” Accusatory, like a watchful mother.

Erwin grinned. He came to sit beside you, arm slipping over your shoulder as you gingerly crawled up to snuggle into his side. “Yes, Levi. You have impeccable timing. Gave us just enough time for a little bit of fun together straight from the airport.”

“You’re sneaky, Smith!”

Erwin’s eyes widened in mock innocence. “She jumped me!”

“I did not!” You blurted out, embarrassed. Then, thoughtfully, “Wait. Yes, actually I think I did -”

“And you!” Levi was beginning to sound more and more like an irate mother. “I thought I told you to call me for everything! You didn’t even tell me you were catching a flight back tonight!”

“Sorry, mom,” you giggled. “I’ll check in more consistently next time.”

Erwin snickered.

“You brat.”

“Well, is that all you called for?”

“No,” Levi sniffed. “I called about state matters, but I refuse to discuss them while you two are naked.”

That earned him another round of twin laughter. “You’ll have a long wait, then.”

“You _shitty_ brat.”

“Go on, Levi,” Erwin encouraged, suppressing his mirth, “we won’t mention this to anyone. We won’t even make a private joke of it.”

Levi weighed his options, decided he had wasted enough time on this bullshit, and finally caved with a resigned sigh. “What’s this I hear about you resigning and getting Historia to reopen favourable trade deals while Eyebrows is Prime Minister?”

You and Erwin exchanged knowing looks. Head resting against his shoulder, “It’s my reward for telling Historia to quit screwing around. Or as she prefers to put it, it’s ‘the biggest dowry Maria has ever paid for one of her daughters’.”

Erwin squeezed your shoulder. Levi lapsed into thoughtful silence.

“Is that so? Then tomorrow, bright and early, I expect you to get your ass down to the office for your new passport. I won’t have you cavorting around Sina pretending you’re still a diplomat.”

“You’ve got my new passport already? You let me skip the line? How sweet, Levi,” you couldn’t help teasing. 

He grumbled incomprehensibly. Louder, “Yes, you skipped the line because I can’t trust you not to lose temporary transit papers and I don’t need you making work for the consular staff here.”

“I hear you,” you laughed.

“Right. So don’t go trading it in for a Sinian one. Oi, blondie,” he barked, “You hear that? She’ll always be under my protection, so you treat her right.”

“I will, Levi,” Erwin promised, drawing you just a little bit closer to himself. “I’ll take the very best care of my girl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I couldn't resist the airport reunion trope.
> 
> *@blackbelle - Wald and Sannes' end is not explicitly shown, sorry. hehe i ruminated over this, too, and eventually realised that there was no need to show it. Story-wise, the purpose of the (implied) consequences of their actions was only to show Erwin's and Reader's character developments: Erwin moving from starry-eyed idealist to hard-balling politician who has accepted the dirty deeds that come with his position. It's also (not sure if I wrote this clearly enough hehe) meant to say that Erwin was swallowed up by the dirty system of politics. He wanted to be Prime Minister for a noble purpose - to protect somebody he loves, but once he got the position, instead of changing the system so it didn't victimize any more people, he adapted to it and gave in to the temptation of using power for his own advantage. As for Reader, she was not encouraged to exact vengeance, but came to demanded it on her own because, in her own words, she's learned a lot rubbing elbows with dirty politicians and is becoming like them. ;)
> 
> With that, DOBBY IS FREEEEEEEE!!!!!!! 8D Now I've got TWO SOLID MONTHS to muck around before nanowrimo! Yeay!
> 
> Commenters (especially the regular ones! I get so excited to hear from you all!), Tumblr friends, and wonderful people who took the time to talk and to encourage me through the (self-inflicted) doubt and pressure, thank you a whole lot. You the real MVPs.
> 
> It's 4:30 in the morning and I have to be off to bed. Good night, everyone. Thanks for making it to the end. <3


End file.
